It is
It isn’t
Round and round
I can!
I can’t!
You do
You don’t
and trying
trying
trying
doesn’t make it easier
to pull your broken brain away
from turbulance
I don’t know you anymore
I don’t like you anymore
Loyalty keeps me doing
because I promised him
and you can’t help being broken
I know.
It is
It isn’t
Time ticks by
I try
I try
I try.
It is.
It isn’t.
Me.
You.
A circle compounding compromises.
Conviction carries us.
I promise.
I pound.
I promise
I pound.
I paint
conviction
carrying
us.
It is.
It isn’t.
Promising.
(A poem for Dustin & Lyda, Jason & Kirindip. These are characters in the current w.i.p. novel).
Sculpting honey?
Pointless.
Shapes dissolve in moments,
dissappear in the gleaming
sweetness of now–
much like
memories
of you.
I am at a poetry retreat, and I have just realized I haven’t posted any new poetry in ages! Here is one that was prompted by discussion around the table last night.
Men are afraid that women will laugh at them.
Women are afraid that men will kill them
~ Margaret Atwood
Confession:
Inside
she is laughing
at his wizened, flapping sword
Ever appreciative
it is not slashing, slicing, dividing
head from heart.
Confession:
Impalement is not a virtue in itself
ecstacy can take or leave it.
Confession:
She desires his desire,
not his possession.
I’m crafting a world
and living in it.
You’re part of the narrative,
if only,
you were there.
See the twisting silence
weaving between them;
pursed lips, downcast eyes,
See their knot tighten
further together, closer apart.
There at the bottom of the bag
is that precious photo
of the beloved man, now gone.
You have torn it into shreds,
torn my respect for you,
torn my love of you,
torn my heart in two.
It was not enough that he adored
and worshipped you?
You were blinder than him,
though he had the account with CNIB.
Your bitterness is poison
and I will not drink it.
