An Empty Cage; My Heart Has Flown

I want to take my heart and thrust it in
the hollow cage your ribs have made, to see
if life can last alone for two or three
quick beats. But then I spy a frost within.
I can't catch where the ice creeps from. Perhaps
it leaks, like marrow, from those bones. They're lean
and white, but not that frore. It is between
those corset ribs? I peer into your gaps.
It seems an icy hand sneaks up my spine.
There's nothing there where hearts would beat, but that
I'd known before. It's now I catch the trap,
detect your trick. To snare this heart of mine
will take more work than just a cage of bones.
You set it free before; my heart has flown.

Once More, With Feeling

I think it hurts the most after the cut
is done, the mark already made, when blood
is just arising fresh. Endorphins flood
the brain but do not force the new gap shut.
It's like the way I felt after you left.
At first when you had walked away I watched
you disappear without a flinch. I notched
the lipstick case, my fingers steady, deft.
But then the salty blood arose and burned
my eyes just when I thought the time had come
to knit my two parts back into one.
I hid my dreams, the fact that I now yearned
to take the time away. If only it
could be; my cuts undone, my love unquit.

I'll Be Your Light

I have no faith in men or love. I learned
my lesson well - all lovers leave somehow.
Even those who swear they'll stay til death with bow
out then, if not before. My mind has turned
the thought of love into a willing lie,
and rightly so. A fool might sit and dream
his life away on faded old sunbeams
but I have words to waste instead of sighs.
And in the lonely night that brings me down
beyond the pull of truth I build the ash
of hope into a pyre to burn the rash
impudent throughts away. I find I'll drown
my hope in any way I can to cut
the chance of pain and force my heart's door shut.

December #19

the only color in his face is sick,
the purple lips of illness in a face
of paperwhites. this gaping slash he licks
in ev'ry moment he and Pa Time race.
There's not long yet, for he can barely speak,
and tremors move his withered old man hands.
who knows when death arrives, when illness peaks
and eyes stay shut, when Life itself remands.
grandfather, he lies there, a man no more,
a bag of bones that clicks and rattles sharp,
and while we wait we listen for his snore,
the only outward sign of a beating heart.
we wait like birds, as sick as he, just not
as noble - we're impatient to watch him rot.

December #18

my last poem for you, my love, my last
sad mourning hymn. for you have gone, from heart,
from hands, from bed. It was my fault, your start
away, the move towards our end, our past.
The present just was not enough; I needed
room to breathe. You gave me that and more
besides; this thing, both good and bad, is sore
and sad in my heart still, my eyes yet wet.
but you and i, we've long finished, and top
to that, it needed to be done. we loved
but lost, were meant to stand but instead moved.
our hearts could not withstand the sudden drop.
i'll miss you, if i may, but let you walk
by me, and take your path - don't go astray.

December #16

I Salome dance to the beat of worlds,
the sound of drums that pulse to heart's rhythm,
and moved to dance I rise and spin and whirl
until the world must move and sing my hymn.
I Salome swirl and dip and bend,
seduce with flashing legs and eyes too dark
to stay away. Good reason gives no friends
to me, only the dying dare to gawk.
Despite my pretty face I only hide -
I have no skills to meet a man, much less
to keep him. Other girls have learned to try
and lure them in, but this I can't confess.
No matter what you think I must confess
I look but do not act the lioness.

December #15

I listen to poetry of the beat
writers and try to understand why I
am uninspired by words, their words. I try
but nothing arises, I feel no heat.
I listen; song of English kings resound
in rolling rocks of words but I can feel
no sway, no dance, nothing to help me heal
my tired, unrhymed mind. I want to drown
in music, words that fly and soar in clouds
no beats that drag me down onto the earth
and tie me here. I know what words are worth
and what they do; I know what moves a crowd.
But what I need I could not find it words;
I spend my time with music, bands and birds.

December #14

Oh Emily, Emily, sing a song,
of words and slanted light tha pushes you,
down to the floor. Your words, so close, so few,
so marked and scorned, have hidden far too long.
Oh Emily, tell me your secrets. I strive
for you, your white, your sharpened eyes, your frown.
So let me be unloved, unknown, my sound
ignored from day to day - my meager life.
But can one every understand? True Art
in poetry is skill, not chance. I'll write,
and hide, and never share my feeble light
with you. I'll hide these words inside my heart.
Oh what's the use? To push and pull at words
that never fit bun only clash like swords.

December #13

You give up awful easy for a man
who seemed sincere. So why is that - am I
too stupid, foolish, just not worth a damn?
Or are you bored, or mad, or did you lie?
Because perhaps you did. You like to say
you're perfect, like you can do no wrong.
And I'm the one that falls and fails, that pays
too much for my errors. I'll join the throng
of spurned women, pretend to cry - but sir
to call it done so soon? To just give up?
It's not your style, shouldn't be. Give more
before you let me go. Wring out every drop.
It's not my choice, I'll let you let me go
but I would rather push, just so you know.

December #11

I love the roaring magic of the trains
the song of death they sing from track to track -
the humming in my heart that echoes back -
I love the murderous sound of rattling chains.
For trains are death in metal and on wheels,
enchanting, pulling, still just mere machines
that hurtle on into the lovely scenes
of inky night - little towns, empty fields.
But don't they make you think of shaking bones?
Black skeletons that snake cross every land,
and chain us down like grains of golden sand
that slip from out our grasp. The lights that shone
on you between the lines of steel and black
could not keep you here, they only took you back.

December #10

For some reason when you hung up I cried
great heaving sobs, as if I were a child
and my beloved dog or aunt had died.
You left me with emotions mixed and wild.
But why was I so saddened and so moved?
I tried so hard, I wanted to believe
the worst. I tried - you left me so confused
I had nothing to think or to perceive.
All day I had survived the endless wait
and thought I'd be okay. Not great, but I
could live. It hit me, though, a bit too late,
that this would count failure. I'd rather die.
I wouldn't take it well, I said. It'd just
be proof that I should wrap my heart with rust.

December #9

The red haired girl who sits beside you laughs
behind your back. She thinks you're slow, you know,
she thinks your jokes are bad. In Math you graphed
your ex and why she left you so alone
But never did you manage to sum up
just who you were. High school is cruel, I know,
I long to give you peace. But I must hope
you'll find your way without my guidance through.
My boy, you'll fall, but don't we all? It comes
the same in the end. So I'll kiss your cheek,
you'll flinch and ask, perhaps, for a set of drums.
They're cool, you'll say. I'll sigh and pay this week.
You'll grow, you know, this life will fade away.
The burns will heal, the heat will cool some day.

December #7

Please can we walk and talk a while? I need
guidance, a solemn conversation. Give
me hope, some light to follow, let me feed
my tender soul with good reasons to live.
It's not that I have no reason, it's just
that all of mine are bad. I base my life
on little things, a wheelbarrow's rainy rust,
the chickens, plums, all balanced on a knife.
The edge is thin and razor sharp. I fear
to see them fall - my colors sink in mud
and filth, my chickens white, the barrow near
and red, these images befuddled.
Please can we walk and talk awhile? I long
for meaning deeper than within some song.

December #6

The falling snow fits on the distant trees,
like hands that mesh together to form one.
I hate the snow, I hate the cold, the leaves
that drip, with melting mess, so all alone.
Don't talk of hands or love or lips so sweet,
My heart which hates the snow is lusting for
the cold. It is too soon for me to meet
someone who pushes me, to take shelter.
Or so I say, peculiar thoughts in mind,
because it's less simple than I pretend.
I fear to look because of what I'll find -
a handsome man I only call my friend.
I close my eyes and lull my heart to sleep,
This feel is not love, will surely keep.

November #18

Each time I try to hide from one person,
I bump into someone else. In pairs they
walk, catching me off guard by light of day
or moony night. They laugh to watch me run.

Oh lovers, nameless friends, it's all the same.
For when I seek my meager solitude,
then in they swoop and I must not be rude.
Hello, hello! My gritted teeth complain.

Society is fine, but this poet
can only think when she's alone, besides
how many friends disguise contempt with lies?
Better to trust as far as can throw it.

Alone, aloof, suddenly I recant.
Who knew poems made one rather distant?