last night, dear.

last night you haunted me.
although still with me-
quite alive-
i felled you like a torrent,
like a raindrop, like a flood.
the room was quite empty-
black and lonely,
as though every watching angel
had hastily deserted me
in my ill fate.
drops of water swelled
and frosted the edge of my lashes
i shivered.
alarming thoughts
pounding in my skull
like pegs into dry wood.
i cannot feel, i think,
and i come up empty--
as though a handsome stranger
presented me a blank sheet of paper.
drops of sweat beaded
on my neck
like startled bees,
stinging me with salt.
i raised my head and murmured:
god! i don't love him.
there! i said it.
my eyes scored the room warily.
i don't, i don't, i don't.
it crept accross my weary brain
like a drug, like a moss.
and i laid my head on my pillow-
quite unarmed-
my eyes fluttering shut in sleep.

wishing well

you feel as though you've done with
trying, with this unnatural and
unavoidable circumstance.
would you rather wake up to
dark skies every morning
to, the horrid rank of complacency?
it cannot be solved
but i'll die trying rather
than wait for that blow to the back of the head.
we've been drowning all this time.
don't tell me who i am,
there is no quick escape to
an earth of waltzing stars
and broken wishing wells.
where everyone brushes their teeth and
kisses goodnight,
and the distant hum of humanity
is like the subtle grinding of the teeth of the dead.

ebb and the flow

miss Laurel and i sat at afternoon tea
in the thick of the moment, she looked up at me.
she sipped at her coffee and looked at my eyes,
and she blurted out suddenly, to my surprise:
i'm just here. i'm halfway done.
life is a ball of yarn that i've half spun.
and there's nothing to do but sit here with you
and wonder what i could have done.
she said, "i've this apartment, this van and this cat,
& i'm not getting pregnant, i'm just getting fat.
i'm just waiting for something that won't come along
and i'm wondering where i went horribly wrong."
i said, "life's like a shelf you can't reach at the store,
& you haven't grown yet since you've been there before.
every now and then people complain you're too slow,
but you've got to accept the ebb and the flow."
she said, "mother reproves me for the length of my dress
& my sister's got 8 kids, but i'm not impressed.
but now i can't see past the bridge of my nose,
and these glasses make me feel so dreadfully old.
it's just that. i'm halfway through.
life's a late ball, but i'm seasick by nine.
i hear from my mum that Prince Charming will come,
but he sure is taking his time."
i said, "love's like a tidal wave, clearing it's path
and it surges, and paints hearts to blue that were black.
every now and then you must demolish to grow,
and you've got to accept the ebb and the flow."
she said, "i think i'll give up this dastardly plan,
and i'll get out of Kansas as fast as i can.
go to bright Barcelona, i'll waitress till i am
quite fluent, and then i'm resorting to crime.
i'll steal hearts like they're emeralds and smash them in two.
i'll be someone else by the time i've become through.
that's just it! i'm halfway there.
if love is a lift, then i'm taking the stairs.
& you tell me it's simple, like curling your hair,
but if that's so love, then i'm color impaired."
i said, "life's like a peach tree with branches that sprawl,
and you pick a few peaches, but you can't have them all.
cause your arms will be full, and you'll drop at least half;
and see, life isn't meant to be lived out like that.
you just follow your heartbeat wherever it goes,
and you've got to accept the ebb and the flow."

dear sister, i love you.

where have you gone, sister?
i thought that i knew you.
what happened then, sister?
my eyes look right through you.
i think that it's time we re-introduced.
we'd find we worked so much better together
than ever we did work apart.
but i can't help but think it'd go much more smoothly
if you weren't so insistent on breaking my heart.
for once it was captured, and i was quite restful,
content without running or hide-and-go-seek;
but you couldn't stand it-it killed you to see it-
what happened, dear sister? why be so contrite?
like David of Israel, content not with his sheep,
you reached out and snatched from me my only lamb.
but sister, he'll hurt you- hurt you like he hurt me-
likewise, he'll be hastily snatched from your hand.
and then you'll cry, sister.
you'll cry and you'll know.
the tears will then water the ground on your soul.
it may be unpleasant, but dear, it's quite worth it:
the water soaks in, and you can't help but grow.
oh, i know you're clever- alarmingly coy-
but you'd step on your sister to reach for a boy?
i guess that just makes us two souls of a kind-
we both have your best interest first in our minds.
dear sister, what happened to make you so cold?
i will not allow you to rip you in two.
you wish to be far-sighted, clever, and wise,
but you can't be with your hands to cover your eyes.
and sister, you'll get it some day. you will see
that when everone left you, still you had me.
even when you break me, i won't stop to care;
and the day when you realize- i promise, i'll be there.

the other side of winter.

winter can also be quite cruel.
leaving the ground bare, humble, cold.
drafts nip at my skin and quickly retreat,
like troublesome children,
only to come back again and torment me in my loneliness.
it is jealousy.
life is devoid of naught,
yet i am filled with abject melancholy.
i am fraught with forboding and fear to look past today,
for tomorrow things will remain in such a state.
winter! when will you rest?
when have you even shown mercy? shown pity?

winter.

oh, that winter can be so lovely.
though the trees have been stripped of their leaves
and are looking quite humorously naked
in the midst of all those handsome evergreens;
and my beautiful tulips seem gone until spring,
the air is fresh.
snow has long forsaken this small corner.
though the ground is frozen hard,
the sky refuses its torrents of powder.
i'll have tea and buttered toast, and sit pleasantly
by the big window, wrapped snugly in a blanket,
having hypothetical conversations with Anne Boleyn
and Catherine Howard.
there are those who would storm in quite angrily
and rebuke my sanctuary.
and smile i gently, never understanding
the morbid pleasures of the wicked and the weak.
and steam will float contentedly from my tea
and tickle my nose quite precociously,
like so many prayers uttered in times of peace.
and i may look up, and see soft peals of white
flurrying down in the greatest of hurries
to clean the ground gently- melting upon touching
the wicked earth. next will come spring, it's sister
with rains and poppies, to turn about our melancholy-
but for now, winter.