An invitation to grieve

There is that moment in grief

when it clutches your breath

and you wonder how you will ever snatch life back,

how you are certain your lungs have forgotten how to draw

 

 then it snaps back like a cruel rubber band

the air returns

and all you want to do with that one precious breath

is wail

so all the world can hear

so everyone stands still for just one moment

so the clouds stop their constant sweeping of the sky

and the magpies quit their ceaseless conversations

 

OUR WORLD HAS CHANGED

you want to yell at ever passerby

 

The seeds of my kin have spilt on the earth

Cry with me

please

let our collection tears fall on fertile soil

so that new life may grow

 

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I have a simple wish

- and that is to be known

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It's all make believe, isn't it?

-Marilyn Monroe-

A Macabre Tale of the Bloodsucking Kind

She once had a dream  that she lay down in the river

In the midst of a moment where the air was so thick and hot

that the mountain fed waters offered the only breath of freshness.

She walked across rocks slippery with algae and

tossed with empty shells of long gone dragonflies -

like crusty ghosts of lovers - brief lives

metamorphosized in unknown skies.

She slid her body amongst their past - into a slow eddy, warmed and glistening.

She lay down in the river -still and long-

till leaches came and kissed her tired soul

with their slender hungry bodies

and sucked the sin out with her blood.

And then she rose

out of the waters and out of her sleep

Scrubbed her body - red and clean - in a shower scalding hot

Opened her windows to a rain soaked spring day

And dreamt that dream no more.

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“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning, but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay

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