DEATH

In my yearning for solitude,

I missed The Epiphany of

Sensation.

Alone, I found surety

but discovered that

it admits

no wonder.

What remained for me was

A Thought

and, occasionally…

A Dream.

When we suffer enough, we learn.

FOREVER

I wanted to distill

the essence of the world and

contain it in a bottle so

the sweetness,

that fades upon possession,

would never leave me.

I picked and chose

bits I deemed important and

threw away the rest.

What I didn’t know is that

the rest gives the bit its meaning.

Now,

this knowledge

springs from my being like

a shoot from a plant.

I realize that

forever requires

a gentle embrace.

-For “One Shot Wednesday” at http://onestoppoetry.com/

HEARTS: PART TWO

My heart is

a jewelry box-

a place where I keep

the odds and ends of

my existence.

My treasures fill the box to

overflowing, and

some adorn better than others.

But

I can discard none.

Each is a necessity,

a site of memory

recalling me to myself.

-For “One Shot Wednesday” http://onestoppoetry.com/

HEARTS: PART ONE

Your heart

has many compartments,

like those of a train.

They stretch through time.

Their contents,

your passengers,

never touch.

Their bond is

the containment that you provide

as you journey

from room to room

searching

in a look

in a smile

for that one

who reflects

the you that you want to be.

 -For “One Shot Wednesday” http://onestoppoetry.com/

IN THE BOX

I.

"They messed up his mouth."  

Momma scolds the funeral home,

under her breath,

as her hand tentatively hovers

over your closed face.

Now, your lips are thin smudges

that barely cover the teeth.
Your lips were full once.

I remember.

I used to watch them.

As a child,

I watched

as they told stories, jokes, and dreams

while we all sat at the kitchen table.

The words that came then were

more restful than sleep.

I watched too

to distract myself from

the ungodly fear that I felt

when their pursing gave way to

the clench of your fists.

II.

You are so small,

like a child

wearing his father’s suit,

as you lie there

in the box.

Ten years before,

the suit fit you well.

I remember.

You sat at your desk

counting the days take,

pausing at intervals to

wet your finger with your tongue

to make the job easier.

With head down and

eyes focused intently

on your task,

you asked if I would be coming home

for the holidays.

I made some excuse,

a hollow one, that

made it obvious that

you would not be seeing me

that year.

Just for a moment,

you looked up.

The expression on your face was

the same one you wore

the night that

Momma fell.

I was shocked and

glad.

III.

To my surprise,

the box holds more than

a once was,

hastily bound together with

paper, wire, and glue.

All of your wounds

have risen to the surface.

I stand,

I look, and

I can't help but wonder:

Which ones did I inflict?

THE MINE

While in the desert,

I stumbled into a mine shaft.

Even in its depleted state,

I found hidden riches…

Once I survived the fall.

In this place of Death and

Wait,

Sight is not given but

Created.

While in the desert,

I stumbled into a mine shaft.

In this gaping tomb,

I found a chance to go forward and a

Way back home.

-For One Shot Wednesday http://onestoppoetry.com/

Two news pieces inspired this poem.  One was the story of a miner who fell into a Nevada mine and died there after many failed attempts to save him. The other was a report about how scientists study mines for clues about the earth’s beginnings and life on other planets.

THE BOTTOM

We waited together, but

She got there first.

I saw her, as I walked up to

The bus stop.

She was small and frail in

Her tight blue tank top and

Way too big khaki pants. 

She looked like an ancient child

With her sunken face and

Concave chest that trembled with each puff of her cigarette.

“We just missed one,” she said as I sat down.

“That bitch saw me, but she just kept on going.”

As she talked, her hair,

As red as her thin cracked lips,

Waved in the breeze like the weather beaten flag of

A nation that has been long forgotten.

She muttered more curses, but I didn’t hear them.

I was looking at the dark pink scar above her chest.

She caught me staring.

Touching the scar, she moves closer to me. 

Her toothless grin reveals a darkness

Like a deep well that’s

Been waiting to reveal its secrets.

The thin low tank top did not hide it:

The memory of seared skin that bubbles,

Then crusts and finally smooths out.

What remained had the appearance

Of often used candle wax.

“That’s my ‘bottom,’” she said as she fingered the scar.

“Your bottom?”

“Yeah, he come for it, but I wouldn’t give it up.”

“What?”

“My last 10 dollars.  I needed my ‘rock.’”

“Your rock?”

She saw the confused look of the uninitiated on my face.

“Meth.”

“Weren’t you scared?” I said.

“Yeah, but I needed it.”

She went silent and looked down at her feet

As if she was admiring her white high heeled shoes

With yellow at the tips that covered her toes,

A yellow with the hue and curve of a small just ripened banana.

Still looking down, she said as if talking to herself,

“I cried later when I got straight.”

“I almost died for 10 bucks.”

“I quit after that.  Been sober for nearly a year.”

She turned away from me and

Took another drag of her cigarette.

Then, she used a free finger to dab a piece of debris off of her tongue.

She examined her find with great interest,

Totally oblivious to any thing around her.

I saw our bus off in the distance.