I have this plaster hand…
Likened to yours;
Hanging above the kitchen door…
The one we made so long ago…
On Christmas Eve Day, just bored…
I have a poem written…
By your tiny hand;
As tiny as the one that hangs…
Above the kitchen door frame…
It says “Mommy I Love You”…
And the Gods help me…
If when I pass it by, I don’t hear the words…
In a sigh, a whispering…
I keep a tiny, silver jewelry box…
The one you saved up for;
Inscribed across the dusty top …
Is chiseled in, beautifully:
“I Love You Mommy”…
And “Mommy” dies a little more…
I have all these haunting memories…
Of having future plans;
Fulfilling hopes and dreams…
Just you and I surviving…
Getting back up to stand…
I saved these Christmas things…
Yours and mine;
Stored away like a box to mourn…
Every year, when it’s opened again…
And looks the same…
As the years before…
I held on to your special ornaments…
All of them;
Though I never hang them high…
I never get a tree anymore…
I see no reason why…
But I keep these things…
To remind myself…
Of the twinkle lost to my eye…
I held on to so many things…
Of yours;
Desperately trying…
To keep you somehow, near…
Closer at least…
Than wherever you are…
I have this little butterfly wing…
You brought home;
You flew it behind you like a kite…
A colorful ghost that chased you…
Right out of second grade…
I find these notes you wrote…
To me; To Mommy;
They read your apologies…
For spilling toothpaste on the rug…
And I want to come find you wherever you are…
And tell you that rug never mattered to me.
children
Missed Me.
I’ve been walking on wire
high above a horrific crime scene,
looking down at the sheer
size of such a bloody tragedy
the yellow tape is stretching
for miles across the trees
and the vultures circle
widely around
the tight rope
I’ve been walking.
I look down, muted sounds
while little dots of people
mull their ways around
most of them don’t care
that I’m watching
from the air,
but a few, I see
have taken notice of me
magnified by a cross-hair.
They will try to kill me,
they’ve tried so many times
to shoot me down
from the heights I’ve found,
but they can’t seem
to tap that bead.
And so on I look
bullets flying right at me
I do not falter,
just too desperate to see
the object of this circus show,
the victim of this scene…
tell me.
Is it my baby that you
have down there
amongst such a
massive tragedy?
All I want answered
is this simple query
put down the rifles
and answer me.
They know what I’m after
and they know just as sure
that I won’t be going
a damned place without her.
But, I’ve got a shocker
Folded into my sleeve
and it’s something that
none of these cowards are
expecting from me.
This is what happens,
with all of this time
they’ve given to me,
my mind has mapped
its very own crime scene,
and mine’s filled with bodies
of them, not her and me.
Surprise!
from my high place
above the green trees,
and once it’s all done
I’ll climb down finally
Desperately searching
for my only baby…
I know that she’s here
I can hear her calling to me.
But I never could find her
amongst so many
other dead bodies,
she screams to me
Mommy!
The haunt of my dreams.
Destroyer of Worlds.
The sun ceased to rise
on the morning that followed,
the curse of Her figure amidst the darkening skies;
hearts began to crumble
at first glance of the very same sight,
a darkening of any light against Her Banshee cries;
Her shape only grew and shifted
as She wound her impetuous impositions,
stitching threads through every pair of lips and eyes;
silencing the dumbstruck crowd
unwilling to do anything that is right,
cutting down anyone who counters Her Army of Lies.
The moon has never hung again
since Her forces invaded the heart of man,
in a final stand against what Shiva plans to realize;
the stars have faded notably
to see one twinkle has become rare to behold,
in a black sky where a constant shimmering once occupied;
and it is Her, who has done this
bled the red of my heart into a dry wasteland,
and left the most sacred of ancient divinities all but demystified.
The Destroyer arrived in 2007
to eat both of my arms as they cradled my Boo,
She never made me any indemnities, never tried to compromise;
a wake of hellish destruction follows
closely on the heels of Her stinky, filthy sandal-feet,
leaving the likes of me lucky to be hardly memorialized;
and so the show goes on today
Shiva the Destroyer still reigns highly,
I bow my head out of necessity as she passes by,
so I can keep it on a little longer and plot Shiva’s final demise.
You Will Die. I Will Not Cry.
I am a collection of days,
the pendant trophy that hangs
around your neck.
I am the melted down knight chess piece,
that you reshaped to be a pawn,
to carry in your pocket for good luck.
I am the empty space, that fills your mind
right before you blow out that candle,
and remember what you did, before closing your eyes.
I am the memory, that sticks to your clothes
and is etched into the lines in your hands,
that no longer serve you as they used to.
I am the girl that is now a woman,
and you are the old man that is now a shell
of the demon you used to be.
I will be there, the day you die, surrounded
by tubes and drips. I will be the last face you see,
and I will take that trophy back.
Because I lived.
And you, you…
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No. 4
We shook hands, to make it official;
the mutual betrayal of all that was sacred.
The secrets to be kept wrapped up in white boxes
with white ribbon, neatly bow tied
and tucked away on a shelf, and padlocked
for safe keeping. I was a child,
and he knew what promises meant.
Beasts of Articulation 