Second chance

Not if, WHEN I am well, I will not squander, but should not have needed, a second chance

It will be / It already is / a spiked and harpooned, learning curve

There is humiliation, in not being insightful enough

That it took, being brought to kneel, flayed by horrors, to be grateful enough and find strength

As only when / it’s almost too late / we plead and beg / for one more chance

It is the truer person, who needs no such prompt, but lives rightly, first time around

I am declaring reincarnation and broken-handed, putting myself back together, limb by limb, until even I, do not recognize, the survivor within

She has sore knees from beseeching and a box of unwound screams for keeping

Maybe together, we can shift the albatross, tie on our ice skates, and, leaving bearly visible lines, skate the circumference, to where we last left ourselves, before water absorbed and we sunk, full of the weight of years, undone

Long ago and just now, these worthiest goals lay fallow, ink blots of punctuate

For the urge to live fully, is always most powerful, when denied.

Then, it is up to you, said the rise of each, urgent day

To scatter yourself in those lined troughs, awaiting divine chemistry

To grow once more, whole, when the door is opened and light let in, again

I pray for all, who yearn to begin

One way you can see, throw a penny in a pond, watch ripples cast divination

Fortune can be such a fickle playmate, the one who steals your efforts from your plate or, coin shall surface, catching sunlight, glint, at days ahead, not so dim

And while you wait inside your bird cage, the journey of even those imprisoned, can rise, from the depths of status quo

The lost and lingering who have forgotten how, to float on water

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Stranger

Stranger

Has eight letters, two vowels, six consonants

Can be chopped to negative connotation, or extended to romantic suggestion

Strange people can find each other and feel …

Less estranged

Strangeness can become, familiar

Like the day before a storm brings the brightest day

There are angels walking among us

They may have sagging skin and loose jowels

Dirty fingernails and missing teeth

But their smile is a beacon, guiding lost ships to harbor

Only today I met one as I held the post office door open

She said “this will be your year” and her warmth was a well tended fire in my heart

We marry strangers who have become loved ones

Strange is stronger than blood

You have never been a stranger to me, the day I met you I forsaw

Us walking beneath wet trees, the deer, sillouetted between bare branches

Our wet gloves smashed together

Holding tighter

Than the fierce grip of Winter

Reach in


Patricia, before fame

Played for keeps.

Competition was her muse

She wrote her first book

Won the acalades she sought

Changed her face in surgeons chair

And still

In the pages of her, I read quiet despair

A pervasive loneliness in loose leafed characters

They screamed on her behalf, when she could only

Type help.

And
You, today, walking, lost

With large red dog 

And small foot tattoo

You had the same shape

An edge to your corners, as sharp as spite

A quietude and a silence, sadness set firm in your eyes.

I wanted to ask

Why?

Or reveal what I already knew 

In just having met, the corners and the distance

No match for feeling, across tow path

And into that personal space, where you laid your sorrow out

I smiled a great smile

Thinking …

Can a smile impart a hundred thoughts?

You passed, and the wetness of your loss

Felt like brief rain on my arm

Two strangers and a dog

It was as if it hadn’t happened

Yet

You reminded me so much of Patricia

And her emptiness, written throughout each story

You see … we recognize each other

As much as for who we are not, as our similarities

Strange bedfellows of perverse and solitary, mearly trying to tred water.

If I’d spoken more, I would have asked;

Do you walk through the high grass to see the butterflies?

Do you feel the sun before it gets too hot?

Will we walk in the same direction and in time perhaps …

Talk of how we came to choose, empty steps, over laughter

You never know

They could be everything, or perpetual stranger

A moment, and no more

Or the rest of your life.

Instead of pulling away, if you reached into them

Like leaves blown, will fall, one on top, one below

A path of many 

Creating singular

Direction.

Water


Do you believe?

In

Things greater than 

Yourself?

Do you believe?

In 

Miracles?

Do you believe?

It will end and you will 

Rise up

Out of your bed of pain and fear?

That it will be gone

Dissolved like thin snow or frost

A beautiful nightmare?

Vanquished are the ghosts

You will in time not

Recall the laminate corridors

Antiseptic sting and gag reflex

A night nurse plunging needle

The faces behind morphine dream

Your room mate gasping as if 

Being ravished by herself

A chink of light through heavy curtain

Of hope

A scarescrow angel, you kept the hounds at bay

And mark, in my heart, pressing jewels to forlorn crown

Each gummy bear, red, violet, purple

Like bruises and flowers lain slow

You visit me there, in the crook of my arm

Where anihalation takes her naked bow

You wipe my cheeks of salt, bestow your own token

Posies of disease, viruses for the clean

Small bird bones picked lean, glossy in bleach

They watch her take the boat too far from land and wink out

Like a smudge on the line between life and horizon

They would 

Ask her to turn herself around

Return to the ward, the pill bottle, the undergarment of her lurk

But she has already begun 

To dissolve

Like fine powder

Moving on the swell of clouds

All around birds make noise

And drown out 

The feeling that

She has nothing left to burn

But the thin blue line holding

Our faces out of water

The best of tales

I fell hard, such is the consequence of a colorful lure

Flickering in shallow water lit by hope

the world was messy, like a thirsty rag soaked with blood

still not gaining sustainence

sickness an albatross, urging me to frail edge

I had yet to learn that words can possess no value

be simply pretty things, we are misled by like Xmas baubles, turned over to reflect pattern

how can a writer realize, words can be emptier than a hollow tree?

people who write them, do so with convincing candor all enveloping like hard sales pitch

it’s impossible to believe they’re just words, without meaning, or worse, deliberate opposite

of truth, that sparten ideal, sucking ice for nourishment

when the wet ass hour comes, and it always comes

those who stay, are not those who wrote long entreaty

not the flatterers, cake-bakers, trumpet players

they are usually the last you’d believe, quiet, unobtrusive leaves coloring your floor

when your loud friends have quit you, it is they who step up and inquire

are you okay? Do you need help?

I learned this directly, as if fed by a poisoned spoon 

the ache of losing louder voices and reward of quiet ones, whom you didn’t believe cared

because you listened for the caucophany and wordsmiths who

know their trade as story tellers, so very, well

and I, who also wrote stories, fell hook, line and sinker

for the best of tales

the one where it’s all about them, and if you fall short you’re out

why it took so long to see, the value of things as they stand

plain in the rain, but firm of foot

is down to the fanciful nature I had

before damp veil was torn off and sickness

cast her long net and kept you underwater without purchase

in that drowning you learned, the only lesson worthy of a mortal

it will not be those who come, bearing gifts, cherry lipped

it will not be those who say; you are wonderful, adorable

it will be the person who seems aloof and speaks volumes

because sometimes a story teller is just that

a teller of stories without depth, milking our need 

they do not stay when you reach out, just the length of the tale

long or short, it always comes to an end and then

they go on to the next book and you are left

dangling with pretty words, tied in useless bouquet

now I don’t know what to call myself

“recovering” of some sort of fairytale lure

and in that recovery I find the simple joy 

of people without tall stories
 

This is to thank so much all those magical folk I did not know would step up and to acknowledge those who spoke loudest and did the least by way of mercy. Each to your own I learned and I grew.