mastering your absence

Only during hard times do people come to understand how difficult it is to be master of their feelings and thoughts.-Chekhov


Like, I'm gonna crawl back to you, live again where only shadows lie. Yeah, I'm familiar with 
                            that place where I fawn, excuse, deny.
But, oh my, I'm growing now and 
                               appealing as that sounds, there's something about the bright            
light of 
          freedom grounding me.
                                    I just trip in your cast of gloom and my legs-              
they want to
run.
I trembled once at your touch- it was all I knew.  
But 
     then all that waving nearly knocked me over and I learned to fear.
If our bodies are vessels, then I carried you.
                                                               You've broken free. 
Why can't I?
             No, a fresh start cannot possibly mean I enter the crypt of  your new found glory.  
I can't compromise
                my soul to give you safety.
                       Boulders lifted away become stepping stones where 
                                                                                                 with each foot placement, I'm lighter.
                                  I want back a heart of flesh,
division 
           now, 
              of equal rights, a solid body of strength and wholeness.
                             Imagine me a willow, but still.
Covering my own damn heart this time, 
branches hanging, beauteous and protective.  
                                      The weeping-healing.  Letting go                  lamentations, 
convulsing to purge but silent are those tears, 
           shaking body but
                    not mind.
Write an elegy of what
we were
and what 
        we weren't.
But 
black and white means nothing to my movement.
                      I'm 
                        mourning the theft but rejoicing the gift that's left
                                                                                            and seeing myself a widow.
                 I'm a tree unto myself, away from that brush of bullshit.
                 I'm fixing my hair a different way, viewing a new    reflection.
Any assumption
                    that I can't
                              call your bluff 
is a vapor of what you knew before and audacious
                            to say the least.
Our corona became a noose and your latest proposition, a nail in   the proverbial coffin. 
                         Circles do not have points - at least I know my shapes.
Sling mud- it doesn't stain.
   I'm spotless once again.




The SundayWhirl

I crouch. 
It’s fear
and I have words, plenty but not enough…or not words, right. 
      So, I’m hunkering now in supposed safe haven, watching my own back
cause who else will?
          Split rhymes with spit, which is sort of how the word sounds, wrong
          somehow. Split heart, split tongue, split home, lickety split
                     hmm.
                      More than a crack – a chasm, cataclysmic.  But not really, right?
                                         Happens all the time.
So you think
                there’d be words….and I suppose there are, but insufficient to touch
                                             on….all this. 
                                                              They’re words you could eat.
                                                             The crash, the smash, the wrack up of the
                                                              tumble, of the final word which says, too
                                                                                                                robotically, there’s been a
failure…. in the system, in the program, in the house.
                                  So there you have it, get a new one.  These things happen,
folks.  Chisel out the cleaving, then the leaving. Clinging like ivy to the
                                   tearing asunder.  It makes no sense.  But no one said it
would.
A bond more than bruised-broken, there’s no mending.  The pierce of that
                               edge we can’t escape, the point of that no return.  It’s there we
                                                                 stand, surveying options, knowing now they’re
limited.
And yet, the end is only a term for this one thing.  There’s a beginning on
                                       some verge so maybe it’s best to just not draw this out
                                       somehow.  I haven’t been beat and you didn’t lose, we’ll
call it a tie.
Yeah, there’s a glow somewhere on the other side of this.  Maybe that’s
                                                              what calls.
                                                                          Crumple the papers but me, I’m
                                                                                                                     straightening out. 












“You have to hate someone to hurt them with lies.  Insincere talk brings nothing but ruin.”-Proverbs 26:28 GNT

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