Willful Ignorance (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Willful ignorance is a term that has come to mean turning away from the truth in favor of a lie. But why would anyone wish to remain ignorant, for ignorance leads to mistakes, and mistakes to danger? Why would you trade what is right for what is wrong? The willfully ignorant deny wrongdoing, calling black as white, or in the racist's case, calling white as right. It is not that they cannot distinguish right from wrong, for every man has a conscience that speaks to him. They clearly see the violence and injustice perpetrated in the name of progress. But they turn from it, willfully, claiming they are blind and cannot see anything wrong with stripping another human of their inalienable rights and their God-given sovereignty. They fool others (and themselves) by agreeing with tyranny and call their opposition naive, weak-willed, and fearful, qualities to be despised, because they have proven through brutality that they are superior alpha men, thus, obviously God's chosen people. They claim to be superior in courage and even genetically superior, though no scientific fact, not even one can be produced to substantiate this claim. Because birds of a certain feather flock together, they are reinforced that they are divinely chosen for dominion over the weaker. They are it because they claim to be it, yet no one can prove their claims in a logical and factually based way. 

They build a tower of Babel where philosophies so contrary to the order of nature exist and reach to the sky, stinking to highest heaven. They layer their piles of lies atop one another like the bones of their adversaries' rights. In times of war, soldiers' bones pile up until they proudly stand upon the heap of their countrymen. With bloody teeth and bloody eyes, they scream. "We have won!" For blood is the drink and flesh of the sacrificed. Rabid like sickly animals they have become. And for what? Why have they forfeited their immortal souls? For power and for money which cannot follow them into the grave. They miscalculated: they forgot in their haste that the truth is what will meet them in their final chapter and require of them an answer. It will ask them to look upon the havoc and grief they caused. It will require them to give an answer for their haughty faces and cruel words. They will be made to explain their barbaric actions and policies which targeted the powerless. The dead will stand around them as their final judgement is read out. This, I promise, is the fate of the willfully ignorant.

Remember this each time they pretend not to see what they are doing is wrong. Remember the end that awaits them when they justify inhumane treatment and attitudes of superiority. Remember this when it seems there is no help from Heaven, and no mercy. They may win the battle, but not the war. Judgment comes for them in the form of death. Until then, they will proclaim victory and revel in oppression. Knowing this, do not hide from the truth that every soul is your kin, no matter how different. All of humanity springs from a single set of DNAS, meaning you are all children of the same God. Riches and influence will only trip you up, as Christ warned. Go back and read the words he spoke, of treating all as equals and of caring for the unfortunate and needy among you. Why listen to religious pundits when you should be listening to Christ? For Christianity was founded upon the goodness of Jesus. But they prefer to listen to bearded men who tickle their ears with the promise of dominion. This doctrine appeals to the male ego and libido, for it promises that the physically stronger animal will reign supreme, using all, especially women, as sex and domestic slaves. And it encourages the exploitation of (non-white) men and children as cheap labor. This is their idea of "God's order." But never did Christ command such things-theirs is a religion of convenience. Men ordain as holy that which is most expedient and pleasurable to them. 

This farce, a willful ignorance of Christ's teachings, will be hailed as God's will, for they by force and threat will shove it down your throats and call it miraculous. Open your mouth if you are forced, but spit it out when they are watching, for you do not want to join the ranks of the willfully ignorant. You are better than that for you know better. Appease them to save yourselves but do not blaspheme your conscience. As for you, love others as yourself as Christ commanded. For, in the end he will say to the goats, "I never knew you," though they will be led away weeping. They earned their anguish by calling dark as light. They can fool those who agree to be fooled but only for a time, for all things come to an end, remember this. Only truth is everlasting and the measure of a man.

Will you measure up? Can Christ say of you that you are part of his flock, and you obey his voice? I do not care if you are a religious person-I hope you are not! For manmade religion has done more harm than good. I am asking if the love of Christ dwells in your heart. If you want to know what is in a person's heart, watch what they spend their time on. If they are contributing to the greater good, Christ is in it. If it only benefits themselves, willful ignorance is in it, and you must choose a side. If you are staying out of it, you're choosing willful ignorance, and it is a sin. It is the very definition of sin, for ignorance is a conscious choice of looking away from the truth. You do not have to raise a hand against anyone to be guilty. All you must do is deny the tyranny. Therefore, consider carefully what your response should be, because watching from the sideline is a failure to do what you could have done to help.

Ask yourself: what are my talents, skills, and abilities? Use these to serve the cause. You may not be able to march in protest, but what can you do? Do not wait for someone to tell you what to do for this is your fight, too. And if you do not see it as yours, that is the issue. Humanity belongs to you, because you belong to it! You are like one wave in an ocean of waves; of course you are part of it! This is the biggest impediment, that in an individualistic society you feel disconnected and not a part of. And they know this! They are counting on you to sit on the sidelines saying, "This is not my fight." Consider yourself as having been invited to join the fight! You have been served the truth, that you are a part of this society and it is time to join the fight.

Do not be duped by their religious idolatry which promotes dominionism and minimizes Christ. Do not be threatened by their power to harm you but be more afraid of being counted among the ranks of the willfully ignorant. Do not be dismayed if they prosper and flourish now and call it God. In the end, the truth will have the last word for God is truth; it is all and everything that God is. Be in the truth and the truth will be found in you. 

With Love,

Frida

Fairylight by Devi Nina Bingham

I dreamed as a fairylight she came around

In a strange and hazy twilight

Twinkling of stardust and Heaven bound

For she'd died upon that frightful night

They put her in a purple jar

Her ashes I did scatter

Her absence left an ugly scar

My heart comfortless and shattered

She held my hand and called me mother

Amazed, I watched her grow

In a single moment we had lived together

Through every joy and woe

"Your wish to see me whole came true," 

cheerfully she chattered.

"But, I want to go with you,"

And I gripped her as she scattered.

And left me to the world below

where I belong, of toil and strife

For fairies are made of diamonds and gold

And do not belong to this mortal life

My fairylight she came to me

To prove that she is so at peace

And my consolation is the sea

Until she and I again meet. 

A Good Vs. a Bad Leader (Dedicated to Frida Kahlow) by Devi Nina Bingham

It so happens that when a person is deeply troubled, when they are carrying pain, its' result is anger. Rather than stew in that discomfort for long, they will turn it on the world. They will externalize what they themselves suffered such as rejection, humiliation, name-calling, and the like. Keep this in mind when you see this behavior in strongmen, though their actions are not the result of strength, but of an injured animal. Injured animals lash out when you attempt to help them, isn't this so? They know no better. But adults know right from wrong, their conscience tells them so. You may surmise, "Maybe they haven't got a conscience." Everyone has the ability to know right from wrong but not everyone listens to it. Criminals have gotten good at turning away from their inner voice, they override its warnings. They can see the red light flashing but look away from it.

What then is this most powerful force named the Ego? It is not all bad, but it can be used for bad. It is like a knife--it can be used to help, or to harm. The Ego gives you an idea of who you are, and defends you when you are attacked. In this way it is helpful in defense, so you are not overwhelmed by others. However, it will boast about who you are and be judgmental. It can be haughty, and demand attention and recognition. The Ego is your sense of "me." When the ego has puffed itself up like a balloon, others see this and are repelled by it. Or, curiously, they admire the pretty balloon. Why would they admire a self-inflated person? Because people who struggle with a sense of self, or of feeling good about themselves, admire false bravado. They wish they could believe in themselves and have the confidence of a balloon. Opposites attract, don't they? They admire the balloon's confidence, but confuse Ego for strength. Thus, the name, "strongman" for dictators.

How do you tell a genuinely strong person from a dictator? The litmus test is very simple. Dictators inflict pain; they enjoy sadistic pleasures. Conversely, a strong leader tries to relieve pain by taking pleasure in helping others. Dictators refuse to care about other people's pain, while strong leaders take time to listen and consider the least-painful solution. Dictators are not empathetic and warm, while strong leaders are caring and compassionate. But you may argue, a strong leader must do whatever is best for the whole, they cannot be swayed by individual sentiment. It is true, they must decide what is best based on all of the people they serve. At times they will need to make decisions that inconvenience a portion of society. But overall, a good leader will avoid injuring others, just as a good teacher will be fair and impartial when giving grades. Impartiality is an important quality in a leader, for, if they do not treat all people the same, they show favoritism, and beyond that, they will persecute a group of people based on characteristics unlike their own. 

Persecution is the Ego's specialty. A person's Ego will lead them to lie and deceive, to slander and to enforce generalities or stereotypes upon people they dislike. The Ego will go so far as to elevate itself as superior. Yet, when you look at ways they appear superior, you may not be able to detect any. This is because they have ignored their conscience and are listening to their needy Egos. What are they needy for? Such people are desperate for affirmation, for admiration, and power over others gives them a sense of superiority whether it is justified or not. If their group reinforces their commonly held belief in racial superiority, being part of that group confirms what their Ego has been telling them all along, that they are a superior specimen. It is a demented mirror that shows them what they are so desperate to see. Groups like this gain momentum because these people are craving importance, craving belonging, and craving reassurance that they will be part of something that makes them feel great again. History is a list of such desperate groups of people.

If you point out that their leader lacks the hallmarks of a good leader, they will make excuses for him: "He's only trying to..." because they see him through the lens of their own hopes and dreams. They will continue to make excuses for him in the face of facts, even scientific studies so their dream of belonging to the ruling class is not smashed. They will hold their delusional beliefs tightly until the leader has utterly betrayed them, and even then, it will be difficult for them to believe that the man they put their faith in only thought of himself. Societies the world over will continue to repeat such dysfunctional patterns until such as a time as they tire of it, until they can see that empathy is strength and cruelty is actually weakness.

If you find yourself in the midst of such a struggle, if you are caught in a nation that is fighting a misguided "strongman," do not be surprised when his followers cannot hear your warnings. Remember, they are deluded into believing that he is the answer to the nation's problems. Arguing will be a waste of time, for to them it will seem it is you who are not seeing correctly. The dividing line is: a good leader is fair while a bad leader is cruel, and it is as simple as that. That is all you need to remind them of and the less said, the better. 

I advise you to try and look down the road to what seems to be the logical next step. Prepare for the future. If it looks bleak for you, prepare now to meet the challenges. Do not wait for others to tell you what to do. Think ahead. Think for yourself. Get out, if possible. If it is not, prepare now for the worst of what could possibly befall you. A smart person looks and sees what is coming rather than depends upon the undependable media. Use your common sense, use your head and not your emotions. If you see a storm coming, prepare your home. If a hurricane is building, do not wait until it is upon you. Prepare ahead of time. You will be glad that you took my advice. 

With Love,

Frida

Let Them Misunderstand by Devi Nina Bingham

Who can claim to know me through and through?

None listened, always knowing more

harsh prayers from a sacrosanct pew

even she whom I adored.

My dreams and laboring time is passing by

amid betrayals that sting and bring woe

as the moon cloaks the disk of the sun as it shines

dark winds blow.

Who can claim to know another's heart?

people of immeasurable pride

weary boned and torn apart

mute until they died.

Labor no longer beneath a burdensome hand

betrayal and tears have freed me

let them all misunderstand

I now live carefree. 

Powerless by Devi Nina Bingham

If I speak up, they'll notice me

If I protest, they'll lock me away

Fighting back is not so easy

when you are working all day.

If I protest, they'll lock me away

there's so much I could lose

when you are working all day

nobody need know my political views.

There's so much I could lose

protect my family and home

nobody need know my political views

as soldiers through my neighborhood roam.

Protect my family and home

like the government once protected me

as soldiers through my neighborhood roam

from sea to shining sea.

The government once protected me

I'm telling you; I love my homeland!

From sea to shining sea

I demand you unhand--

I'm telling you, I love my homeland

you misunderstand; I have my rights!

I demand you unhand--

this doesn't happen to whites!

You misunderstand; I have my rights!

Powerless now I have no choice

This doesn't happen to whites!

Too late now to raise my voice. 

Marriage is Wine by Devi Nina Bingham

I pondered whether it was good or bad

that freedom had caught me and made me glad

remembering still our promises fine

talked we then in happier times

of aging harmonious, others acrimonious.

Who lament with both sorrow and torment

for promises made of comfort and content

under the delusion that marriage is fine wine:

for wine is soured if kept too late

or sweet and heady opened at the plate.

And as we were apart too long

bitterness replaced our sweet love song.

Yet still I hear what was meant to be

as if the vineyard is calling me

the tender grapes making their plea.

Where to Lay the Blame by Devi Nina Bingham

Why should I fill my lazy, empty days

with blame for her indifference

her wandering eye, and self-absorbed ways

when it was really a fearful diffidence?

What could have garnered her attention

for a wife gone silent as a country mouse

armed with counterfeit condescension

marriage reduced to a speechless jailhouse.

She, pursuing a separate existence

and I, sunken in a friendless lake

both learned to keep our distance

with feelings too tender at stake.

Could she have done any better to reach my shore,

could I have done any better to give her more?

We will never know where to lay the blame. 

Cleopatra by Devi Nina Bingham

 

Cleopatra, goddess Cleopatra, doomed queen

Listen closely as I sing:

Egypt's glorious pharaoh be

Lover of Caesar, and Marc Antony

Who, born the daughter of Ptolemy, acquired

A kingdom under siege and opportunistic liars

In battling your brother, 

you took Caesar as your lover.

Draw closer that no Rome will dictate

Your destiny of love and hate

In settling your own tragic fate

You fashioned a name, forever great.

Hear me, hear me, hear me--great souls like yours remain

But for a brief time, and they suffer pain

Only fools do the masses praise

The poison you chose was more honorable than becoming a slave

Cumbrous mortal vanity plagued you

To royalty it is nothing new

But now your country and people seek

Egyptian lore and not the Greek

And none, whether slave or free will forget the legend

Whose name was not lessoned

Sing I of the beauty of courage and love

of which your history speaks

Cleopatra, goddess Cleopatra,

doomed queen.

The Ax Fell Down by Devi Nina Bingham

 

We sat together, contented be

My handsome suitor and me

And talked of politics fervently

I said, "This will ruin the country."

We shared the same patriotic fears

As sanity fled and bigotry neared

Then the ax fell and split the stone

I felt its weight down to my bones. 

It severed our amorous rose in two

Blood dripping down as the morning dew

Scores of bodies in hospital beds

Angels of death danced round their heads

My handsome suitor fled to home

Alas, to roam, and I alone.

To be born a woman is a terrible fate

For the ones we cherish, we will beg and wait

And sacrifice so men may say,

"I'll see you on another day."

Since that starless and dreadful year

I found my voice, and a country dear

When the ax fell down and split the stone.

Once a sailing ship does sink

You must quickly act and think

So, I pulled with all my might

Into that frigid, tempestuous night

When the ax fell down my valor shone

As bright as the cruel fire

That devoured Saint Joan

All fires are made of light

All crowns are made of gold.

Passion Is a Fading Friend by Devi Nina Bingham

In failed memories of better times

We, smiling as the church bell chimed

Euphoric bliss fades as the day

Unconquerable castles turned cold and grey

In days of yore where chivalry fled

Love still stands upon the forgiving bed

With golden thread on tapestry

And Newton 'neath the apple tree

Bouquet of flowers clasped tight

Blossoms of ecstasy bloom at night

Poems of beauty were written then

To the sympathies of women and the might of men

Yet, devotion faltered when it was pressed

The Gods had made a terrible mess

For that heavenly smile and capable hand

From another time and a distant land

When we kissed the flame renewed

Mountains shook and volcanos spewed

But passion is a fading friend

Who sneaks away before the end

Swords upon our broken knees

Tell of former mysteries.

Bright Seagull by Devi Nina Bingham

Bright seagull soaring above

Caring for nothing but the day's catch

Your silent flight brings to my troubled mind

Words unspoken, and the empty bed of love

Hope torn from my adoring breast

Beasts of earth chained to memories so unkind.

O, that you would whisk me away from this stormy gale

Carefree heart that built smooth sand castles

Needing nothing more than sunshine and the sea

In simpler times, delighting in a shovel and a pale

Without passion, and without hassles

Bright seagull, what will comfort me?

My Name is Survival by Devi Nina Bingham

My name is survival

when I did not want to

falling on my face

life had taken everything

yet, somehow in the dust

my heart whispered, "Go on."

As a ghost I went on

for my duty was survival

wandering as the dust

as dirty as I dared to

my shadow covered everything

I hardly knew my own face.

The awful truth to face

I must trudge on

despite the emptiness of everything

choosing the chilling train of survival

longing to lay my head down when I need to

memories decay into dust.

Streaming sun illuminates the dust

a clingy child rests upon my knee

we have arrived, but what camp have we come to?

Hard faces with hard guns command, "Go on!"

A grateful prisoner exclaims, "We've survived!"

when they'll take our hope, our everything.

These dirty, stinky strangers become my everything

tears etched like trails in the dust

remind us there must be a reason we have survived

when they cry I will drop to my knees

and pin their dreams back on

they are the suffering my soul listens to. 

The skinny children I give my food to

I have no pity for the fat guards who eat everything

we play games so that laughter lives on

dreams once bright now settle into dust

children hide behind me, trembling on their knees

some ancient memory of maternal survival. 

The stars fell slowly, leaving naught but dust

lost in reverence on my knees

for my name is survival. 

 

A Fool's Death by Devi Nina Bingham

We were a puzzle

that fell apart

once, a perfect couple

star-crossed sweethearts.

But time has a wicked way

with handsome hearts

our bright blue turned grey

and promises left to rot.

It didn't happen all at once;

a string of let-downs

unfeeling fronts

and childish meltdowns.

Our rainbow turned to rain

I still can see

it never looked the same

what it was meant to be.

A map we didn't follow

a key not used

when we had won love's lotto

stubborn ego was the noose.

Now it seems so obvious

what we failed to do

fate so glorious

demands the diligence of two.

Given a love heaven-sent

guard your gold

lest you die a fool's death

true love grown cold. 

To read more free poetry go to: Devi Nina Bingham: Essays at Twilight-Free Poetry by Devi Nina Bingham

How It Ends: The Prophecies of Saint Michael the Archangel by Devi Nina Bingham

 

                How It Ends

The Prophecies of Saint Michael the Archangel

Copyright

How It Ends: The Prophecies of Saint Michael the Archangel, 2025 by Puerto Penasco Publishing. All rights reserved.

Author retains the right to reprint. Permission to reprint must be obtained by the author who owns the copyright.

Distributed in the United States of America.

Cover Design: Devi Nina Bingham

Essays at Twilight-Free Poetry by Devi Nina Bingham

Forward from the Author

As children, we instinctively recognized our flaws. This was before the superhuman complex set in. We knew our friends were flawed. But we had decided to love it all. Before we complicated life, making it unnecessarily burdensome and perfectionistic, a day was lived one moment at a time, and we did not look so closely, which is why time seemed to stretch on forever. Imagination constructed our reality, and we were awed by nature's secrets. We allowed ourselves to be lost so we could be found and tossed so we could laugh. We still risked and reached, stumbled, and easily forgave. We became pirates who braved the sea on our bikes and scouts who moved through the brush easily using our machete hands. Like Sherlock Holmes, we sought out friends who were hiding. We lived in solitary, unmarred worlds. Our bubble would touch another kid's bubble and pop for a second, then the delicate membrane would close around us as it was supposed to so we could move unmarred, our innocence preserved.

When the bubble that was meant to safely enclose us was broken, we no longer could feel ourselves, for we were made to carry adult imperfections that burdened us with sorrow. How can trauma not fundamentally change us? But family and society insist that we not be changed, that we be happy! Only because they do not want to remember when their bubble burst and the disenchantment it brought. As adulthood set in, we could see through the grown-up mask of comedy and tragedy: adults who were no more than bubble-breakers and troublemakers, who bowed like unbending mannequins, refusing to reveal the severity of their inner devastation.

I have spent lifetimes looking for the superhuman in myself and in others and have concluded that there is only one way to apprehend beauty, and that is to find it in ourselves or in nature. The trees, the flowers, the thunder, and the rainbow simply are, letting the seasons flow and ebb away. Yet, the tree never stops doing its thing: growing tall, blooming, and bearing fruit. A simple recipe for living. It is like the adage, "Stop and smell the roses." The apple has always hung like a gift from the same ragged tree. It is our decision to open our eyes and see it. That is all. We don’t have to grow trees, or buds, or apples. We only need to appreciate the beauty that is there in ourselves and in the natural world. As a mercy, in old age our childhood comes around again.

Twilight is an auspicious time. It heralds the finish of one day and the start of the next. It is the curtain falling after a play, the sunset quieting itself after a Summer scorcher. It is a time for reflection and slow moments. It is an opportunity for a cool drink in a sweaty glass or a modest splash of red wine in an orbed goblet. It is that instance, the very moment when sighs over the day’s trivialities and grunts over the day’s gravity grab a seat and let their hair down. Twilight affords us the good fortune of taking stock of our day before darkness creeps in and drags away the light. We say of seniors, “They are in their twilight years.” Having traveled our whole lifetimes in the sun, twilight is the shadow that has accompanied our every turn.

These poems attempt to describe life lived in the twilight state of elderhood, where the air is sweeter, silence is the preferred language spoken, and the world seems to move in a slow and unhurried dance, unapologetically. In twilight the final chapter comes on slowly and exits quietly. This collection reminisces like the elderly who prefer to recall not the high and mighty things accomplished in life, but common, everyday realities we share and know so well: what’s for dinner, our childhoods, and our failures. In retrospect, failures look less like shame and more like courage. Mistakes are, at the end of every story, only hard lessons we learned. Some of these poems reveal the darker shades of my life because the character of twilight has one foot firmly planted in darkness while the other foot struggles to remain in the light. These poems map twilight’s dichotomy, a representation of our shadow selves. I hope they will speak to you, revealing the beauty inherent in every mistake and the elegance of every line etched on your indomitable face.

Devi Nina Bingham

A Fool's Death

We were a puzzle
that fell apart

once, a perfect couple

star-crossed sweethearts.

But time has a wicked way

with handsome hearts

our bright blue turned grey

and promises left to rot.

It didn't happen all at once;

a string of let-downs

unfeeling fronts

and childish meltdowns.

Our rainbow turned to rain

I still can see

it never looked the same

what it was meant to be.

A map we didn't follow

a key not used

when we had won love's lotto

stubborn ego was the noose.

Now it seems so obvious

what we failed to do

fate so glorious

demands the diligence of two.

Given a love heaven-sent

guard your gold

lest you die a fool's death

true love grown cold. 

All I Didn’t Do

I try not to think of you,

for memories too close impair me.

Just a song about how you flew

or a butterfly on my knee

 

and the pain spurts like regret

for all I didn't do.

Can't forget as of yet

a hole my conscience chewed.

 

Your note said I did my part

but all I see is my refusal to

be present for your bleeding heart

too busy with my can-dos.

 

How I wish for the melody

of your voice hounding me. 

Alone

Alone in cells of isolation

experiencing a deafening silence

still we soldier on

in battle with ourselves

like cells in our bodies

of a particular duration.

 

Alone with cruel thoughts

cells contain what cannot be shared

so afraid of touching others

in a world of miscalculations

we withdraw into ourselves.

 

Inviting others to our party,

soon they have come and gone

in solidarity to preservation

cells are bleeding on.

 

Cells multiplying generate new life,

we are meant to grow.

Isolation sweeps away connection 

as we face the sun

in our morning cup

the day is done.

 

A heart, the tribal drumbeat

cells understand the dance of inclusion

alone until they meet themselves.

We have become estranged from our tribe

isolation was the sentence of the damned

living as ancient outcasts.

 

Are we living the best way

in secure and impenetrable fortresses,

isolation the unintended outcome,

cells we have made of ourselves.

We were severed from the natural way

alone for too long, we stopped reaching.

 

Alone, the defense of desperation

we took shelter in.

Cells have we made of ourselves.

Ancient Abyss

To let you go I'm moving on

will find another to welcome this kiss.

Art was the muse I threw my passion upon.

Why are you so hard to dismiss?

 

I see your smile but it's for her now.

It's high time I fixed the holes in my heart.

How easy you left when I didn't know how.

This time I'll play the vanishing part.

 

The past is gone, so face the truth.

But the memories spilled out everywhere.

We met in a time of carefree youth

seizing a torrid love affair.

 

Why are you so hard to dismiss?

I must rescue myself from this ancient abyss.

A New Frontier

Dreamt I of how the world will end,

of robotic aliens with guns.

Alone was I, without a friend,

waiting for the morning sun. 

Why didn't you come?

 

If you had been there by my side

no fear could grip my heart and soul.

My last breath would be glorious,

even if I died.

 

When Saint Michael cracks the seal

that makes our deeds vainglorious,

when it is dangerous,

will you be courageous?

 

Distance cannot part kin souls

no matter what we say or do.

In the end, we have severed wholes;

one was rent into two.

Tell me it's not true.

Time has made a fool of me

waiting for you to awaken

as the earth trembles furiously

it has left me shaken.

 

Seems my heart was gravely mistaken,

I shall watch the metallic sunset from here.

A new frontier

as I shed a tear.

 

A Thousand Years

You're tucked in my heart

far into the future that none can see,

a picture of your dear face

time frozen in joy, pain, and ecstacy;

a precious treasure chest of such tender magnitude.

Unyielding my heart's picture, it's no platitude.

 

I can't let go, though time marches on and the sun keeps rising high.

No matter what you say, I will believe in us until the day I die.

Your fine face and smile are locked in here for a thousand years.

A thousand blind hopes will bring my love as time flies.

Then be soothed, and dream of the wild time when we loved without tears.

Breathing Through Words

Without my work, what am I?

Suntan lotion and dance music,

a thick, bloody steak and a margarita devoid of meaning.

 
Words unlock a world locked in chaos.
Writing is the clean air I breathe.
Must I “get away” from that which defines me?
 
Without my art I have no explanation, no justification, no border, no definition.
I AM my art. I AM my words. I AM the thinking man on vacation.
 
I will do what I love and let others call it work

because I know it as breathing through words. 

Chemistry

Passion, where have you gone

lingering in thought

of sweet memories fond

forbidden, yet sought.

 

Will I never again taste

thrilling pleasures fine?

Tender moments gone to waste

like a soured glass of wine.

 

To distant heights

we did fly, yea, soar!

Two souls like tangled kites

never wanting for more.

 

My heart closed like a book

slammed shut by a wandering eye

and promises forsook

there's naught to do but cry.

 

Yet, once the heart has entertained

the heights of fiery seduction

no less than this will keep me sane

than your carnal instruction.

 

Chemistry is primary 

to sweep me off my feet,

all else is secondary.

You and I should turn up the heat. 

Child’s Play

We externalized our angst and fantasies and spoke not

the language of cruelty.

Blood was spilled the day we stopped playing.

Instead of cooperation and inclusion, we spoke aggression.

Instead of creation and sharing, we spoke war.

 

In old age we are children hugging the grave

as helplessness returns.

Then we will remember  

we are all the same,

and laugh easily at life and death

for birth could not stop our arrival

and death will but free us.

 

There is nothing at all to dread

for what scraped us in this dream

was not as steely as our spirits.

And the terror of life was only the evidence of child's play

missing in ourselves.

 

Consolation Will Never Be!

Lost I my sweetheart on that bitter day

roving soulless with half a heart

Devoid of romance and in decay

with a single kiss my gloom would depart.

 

Roving soulless like half a heart

consolation will never be!

With a single kiss my gloom would depart

yet love, it flees from me.

 

Consolation will never be!

Like a broken glass of many hues

yet love, it flees from me

dispassionate suitors I refuse.

 

A broken glass of many hues

I hope will be reclaimed

dispassionate suitors I refuse

while masculine company is entertained.

 

I hope to be reclaimed

though affection is no game

masculine company is entertained

rapture set aflame.

 

Though affection is no game

the rouge who will win my affection

rapture set aflame

is one who can ease my tensions.

 

The rouge who can win my affection

not the handsomest, but the clever

is one who can ease my tensions

becoming my cherished treasure.

 

Until then, consolation will never be!

Death Comes Creeping

There is a grace as age descends

twas given to men, a gift of the Gods

that death comes creeping as a friend.

 

With softest steps it condescends

with shuffling feet, it plods.

There is a grace as age descends.

 

So sneaky death though it offends

doth whisper sweet until the end

for death comes creeping as a friend.

 

And thinking you are on the mend

the vulcher swoops and caws.

There is a grace as age descends.

 

The preacher sounds the final lament

and we welcome the wormy sod.

For death comes creeping as a friend.

 

Destruction need not repent

for gently untying the knots.

There is a grace as age descends

when death comes creeping as a friend.

Disrespect (Haiku)

I got used to disrespect

an obedient silent version of me

when my own hand covered my mouth.

Do-It-Yourself

The biggest moment, and so few knew

I did this thing all by myself.

Family and friends hadn't a clue

so, I set my degree upon a shelf.

Most of my life is a do-it-yourself.

It's my own choice to live this way.

Ever since my hair turned grey

the only one I care to impress

is my dog, on a good day.

I'm a reluctant, reclusive success. 

Eclipse

In a world of sound, disturbance and noise

you walked in as on a silent, white cloud

and I went deaf at your wordless, glad poise

as you shouted over the din of the crowd.

 

From different worlds, like day and night

my sun did shine as your moon did set

I held the moon ever so tightly

afraid that I hadn’t captured it yet.

 

But the moon only shines when darkness has fallen

when it is hushed, unbound, and forever free

so you fled from me as the sun was setting

and I still rise for you, though you don’t see.

 

Our best day together

was an eclipse in the weather.

Everything Happens for a Reason

Everything happens for a reason

the blind bat finds its way

in dark, light, or any season.

 

Religious parents call it high treason

and reject the child who is gay

yet everything happens for a reason.

 

The single mother knows nothing but depletion

and silently begins to pray

in dark, light, or any season.

 

The divorcee who feels uneven

alone, cold, and grey

everything happens for a reason.

 

A bird whose wing is broken

doth sing anyway

in dark, light, or any season.

 

Pain and trials force our completion

and test our strength alway

everything happens for a reason

in dark, light, or any season. 

Everything to Gain

Mexican breeze rustles the palm trees

an ocean of blue and green

windchimes humming like bees

golden sunshine that must be seen.

 

Persistent coo of the doves

pelicans flying in formation

spicey dishes that I love

Aquarius is tonight's constellation.

 

Mariachi music is always playing

shells in my pocket and sand in my shoes

you can bet that I am staying

everything to gain and nothing to lose.

Exotic Pets

He called me his girlfriend

before I knew what it would mean.

I knew I belonged to him

as friends do belong to one another

yet something else was expected

that I couldn't decipher. 

 

He was a handsome Mexican boy,

a mustache of peach fuzz

and a serious, rough demeaner

that drew me in.

I was magnetized, a pattern to be repeated later in life.

Curious to touch his scuffed, mocha-brown skin and thick hair,

I yearned to caress him, but kept my eyes low,

green eyes that flashed giggles, 

and Irish freckles dappling ivory white skin.

Skin of white silk pressed against the wild deep, dark, and dangerous.

Sun-kissed hair flying straight and strawberry blond.

 

His broken English intrigued me, spicy hot words

spoken like a bullet train I had to catch.

I was quiet

as his temper could flare like water thrown on hot grease. Temper, temper!

This intrigued me.

Volatile and passionate,

fuel for his rocket of adolescent rage.

 

After school he would take me by the hand and lead me

to a dark, dank, cool place smelling of wet earth and dust

beneath a foreign house

and kiss me as we locked eyes sternly.

I tingled all over with excitement, guilt, and worry.

What would he do to me, the passionate Jose?

 

He always pulled out his magazine of naked ladies

and would explain like a doctor, anatomically

as if they were his,

like I was his for giving him pleasure.

I would look, then turn away,

only there to kiss and plunder the depths

of his angry Latin eyes. 

 

Riding bikes through a field, he grabbed my wrist

and marched me into the canopy where trees slumbered and stooped.

"Lay down," he commanded in broken English. 

I didn't want to lay down among the marshy, pointed reeds. 

I protested as he pushed me down and laid heavy on top of me.

We kissed until I got worried about snakes hiding in the grass.

 

Jumping up, I bolted for my bike, but he was fast.

In a field of gold we were yelling.

Jose's fist sailed through the air, landing hard.

When I awoke, he was stooped over me. 

"I didn't mean to." All Jose's say that. 

Revenge was coiled up in me and ready to strike.

Crunch, crack! He flew back when my punch landed straight and true.

Jose laughed, although his nose was bloody. "We are even now,"

he conceded. "You are strong for a girl." 

 

I knew I would never trust him again.

I wouldn't be controlled.

Suddenly his darkness didn't attract me.

Jose was a dangerous jungle animal 

whose stripes had hypnotized me.

Be careful, 

I said to myself,

with exotic pets. 

First Beheld The World

When your eyes first beheld the world

they searched mine for the answers

silently pleading with tiny fingers curled

When your eyes first beheld the world

you grasped my hair and gave it a twirl

later you would join the dancers

When your eyes first beheld the world

when I was still your mother.

Golden Opportunity

Just like the wind I move at will

and never stay too long, lest I

become a statue standing still

I’m a wanderer that prefers to fly.

 

Don't tie me down for I am a wheel

who longs to see more of the earth.

So tag along and bring your zeal,

the earth is ours and made of mirth.

 

Why be a tree when you can soar

above life's trivialities?

Besides all this, you're just a bore

espousing your sagacity.

The highest of humanity

are known to indulge their fantasies. 

 

Cast your cares and doubt aside

and be a fool who plays with me.

Leave your phone and come outside

where your soul can finally breathe.

Remember, there's a child inside

who would rather play in the salty sea,

who would rather roam the countryside

than play grown-up and have high tea.

 

We all decide which "us" to be:

a rolling stone or a steady rock.

Our hearts decide who will hold the key.

Be free for eternity

for this is your golden opportunity. 

 

Heart of Gold

Lonely is this heart of gold

though I refuse the best of lovers.

Longing that our story be told.

 

Helpless as a hostage in blindfold. 

Waiting for you, refusing all others.

Lonely is this heart of gold.

 

And even while our romance is old

the thought of you sends my heart a-flutter.

Longing that our story be told.

 

I can't understand a heart so cold,

your indifference makes me shutter.

Lonely is this heart of gold.

 

You may think my declaration bold

but like a storm that roars with thunder

I'm longing that our story be told.

 

Until the day you pass my threshold

I'll dream of you in disquieted slumber.

Lonely is this heart of gold.

Longing that our story be told.

 

How Hard I Tried

The more I gave the less you cared

so a wound opened, as broad as the sky.

You swore it was me when your temper would flare.

While holding us together your feet were ensnared.

Talons pricked me when you tried to fly.

You knew I'd be waiting with raw hope bared.

Too trusting, because I was stupid scared.

Like a doll you carelessly set aside,

withholding the truth because I wasn't prepared. 

But think of the trouble we could have spared

had you simply not denied

that the love you once declared had died.

My heart hushed so much that went unshared,

even after you'd gone it uttered no goodbyes

and trudged on as if you still cared.

The more I grieved the more your affairs

ran on, but did you ever ask why

you didn't notice my despair

and how hard I tried?

Oh, how hard I tried. 

How Many Loves

How many loves can one heart hold?

And when broken, do the cracks ever mend?

At this age should I be so bold?

How many loves can one heart hold?

Starting again leaves me cold.

Can we begin this romance as friends?

How many loves can one heart hold,

and can I follow this road to the end?

I Hardly Know How to Be

I hardly know how to be

words fail me every time.

Mountains we did climb

when it was you and me.

 

You struggled to be free

and wouldn't last a lifetime.

It drove me to my knees

where I stayed for a long time.

 

I'm living near the sea

where your ashes are full time

sparkling in the sunshine

at least you're living carefree. 

 

I hardly know how to be.

Words fail me every time. 

Joy and Sorrow

I came to clear my head

jammed with worry as it ever is,

the kind of worry that resurrects the past

like a compulsive grave robber.

The kind of fondness that drives me to replay

time-worn scenes,

the kind of fondness that had me dancing

like a showgirl puppet

gowned in matrimonial taffeta

on a soggy, sacrosanct day.

The kind of worry that made me plead

on my knees when death snatched her.

A mishmash of ragtag memories crowd my days.

Label me a retrospective character, 

for it fits, and I wear it with pride

as an artist and a woman. 

 

Today the sea is cranky, withdrawn, baring its' jagged teeth. 

I walk until my legs ache, but I've sorted out my problems.

Of different natures, they grow like flowers in my garden.

 

Like wildflowers, disputes are colorful and unruly, 

hard to contain.

They do ramble and travel

in tight circles that repeat themselves.

Like red roses are my joys, neatly arranged

against a backdrop of lace, finery, and romance. 

 

What stands out is the realness of my problems

and the falsehood of my joys.

Misery is truth

while joy is fleeting; a blissful bird taking wing. 

Yet, I would sell my earthly soul to do one bright day over.

 

Joys will alight on my shoulder in the Winter days to come. 

Like a babe, I will suckle and take strength.

From the blemishes and wreckage

I can only hope to do better,

lesson after bitter lesson.

 

If all my desires were met

I would long for a vigorous challenge

for life is a game of opposites. 

 

Having assured myself that my problems aren't extraordinary,

nor can any joy last,

I turn back to the sweet, salty sea 

who has so many moods; she is like me.

I had forgotten the fresh air

and restless waves that hurry in to carry me home.

My head is clear; there is room

for both joy and sorrow here. 

Mercury

Fly away with wings on your feet

like Mercury the swift.

Run away from the ghost that haunts you,

these red lips that you kissed.

 

Only the Gods fly fast enough.

Once upon a time I held you up.

My interest was rebuffed,

we spilled the adoring cup.

 

Winged sandals' grace your feet

and wings do grace your hat.

Running after lovers you did meet

that deceive like the thunderclap.

 

Who dons God's wings yet won’t trust himself,

he dashes from my arms?

Like slipperiest silver his heart on a shelf

is his irresistible charm.

 

Daring, shiny, and quick as a flash

was my beloved, blameless boy.

To escape the shackles of love he dashed

making of love a sportive toy.

 

Lady of Troy, daughter of Zeus

would have known him very well.

Captured by her alluring charms

he thought he could break the spell.

 

He failed to see he could not outrun

the heart that beat within.

Wherever he goes he comes undone,

trapped in Mercury's skin.

 

A tale of caution

to listen to the heart

when love is destined to be.

Even the Gods do not keep souls apart,

not even mercurial Mercury.

Monsoon of Passion (Haiku)

The wind blew my heart wide open

standing still and waiting

for a wild monsoon of passion. 

Mortality

Monstrous is mortality

which stalks the soul until it dies

then free it is of stubborn pride,

brutality, carnality.

We mustn't cry.

 

If we had known the hardships then

would we have volunteered to come

and march like soldiers to the drum

and seen it to the bitter end?

A lion's den.

 

Bruised upon the wheel of fate

crushed is every tender heart

like puppets we are torn apart.

Fools we were to take the bait.

A sinless brave heart.

 

Better is the next bright star

than deception we are drowning in.

Where beauty dwells, and our own kin.

No battle scars or ruthless Czars.

We, sovereign.

 

Were we a cloud, pond, or tree

wouldn't we be much improved?

Even if we hardly moved

or were the tumultuous, romantic sea,

mortality removed.

 

Worlds beyond now out of reach

we will cradle in glorious hands,

rule with care and give commands,

simple species we will teach

as was planned.

 

But today we are like childish fools

who dream of Heaven and a God sublime.

Praying away our heinous crimes,

stuck here in this hellish school

we bide our time.

My Last Fond Wish

I long to be a mermaid

true blue as sky and sea

for when I am cruelly betrayed

I'll be as cold as a fish can be.

 

And sailors will tell stories 

when I sing my siren song

how they lost their wits and jumped to be

fish food for my killing spree.

 

And artists will paint my portrait

murals grand on beach house walls

and in the night, I'll come to see

my likeness even if I must crawl.

 

So now you know my last fond wish

is to be a mermaid, that cunning fish. 

My Name Is Survival

My name is survival

when I did not want to

falling on my face

life had taken everything

yet, somehow in the dust

my heart whispered, "Go on."

As a ghost I went on

for my duty was survival

wandering as the dust

as dirty as I dared to

my shadow covered everything

I hardly knew my own face.

The awful truth to face

I must trudge on

despite the emptiness of everything

choosing the chilling train of survival

longing to lay my head down when I need to

memories decay into dust.

Streaming sun illuminates the dust

a clingy child rests upon my knee

we have arrived, but what camp have we come to?

Hard faces with hard guns command, "Go on!"

A grateful prisoner exclaims, "We've survived!"

when they'll take our hope, our everything.

These dirty, stinky strangers become my everything

tears etched like trails in the dust

remind us there must be a reason we have survived

when they cry I will drop to my knees

and pin their dreams back on

they are the suffering my soul listens to. 

The skinny children I give my food to

I have no pity for the fat guards who eat everything

we play games so that laughter lives on

dreams once bright now settle into dust

children hide behind me, trembling on their knees

some ancient memory of maternal survival.

The stars fell slowly, leaving naught but dust

lost in reverence on my knees

for my name is survival. 

No Man’s Land

The silence is too silent, a weight to bear

like the cloak of darkness of the longest night

we keep our distance in the pale moonlight

and play solitaire. 

 

But we had plans as lovers do

to see each other to the end.

But now you want to call me friend

and other loves pursue.

 

Yet, I will smile and shake your hand

as if we had never tasted passion.

I am stuck out here in no man's land

as falsehood's all the fashion.

 

But tell me, won't you, what happens when

our eyes meet and time stands still

swept up in timeless love again

against our will.

 

What drags us back to yesteryear

no matter what we say or do?

How many cycles we've passed through

yet youthful we appear.

 

Oh, how the heart remembers love

the lucky two of fates star-crossed.

But foolish youth, opportunity lost.

A beloved now we're bereft of.

 

So here I sit in no man's land

because there is no turning back.

I hope, I pray I cut me some slack

with my feet stuck in the sand. 

Ocean View (Haiku)

I abandoned life devoid of you

and called it happiness, for I had to keep smiling

because I had the ocean view. 

O Mexico!

O Mexico! With sweet sounds of traditions old 

on accordion, guitar, trumpet, and tuba

and spicy tastes of cumin, cloves, and Menudo

a proud heritage not my own, despite your lack.

 

The fields upon your backs and children running barefoot,

the maids and housekeepers make it nice for me,

for the white money, their smug savior

tossing pesos like pennies at the eager car parks

with reserved smiles and lowered eyes saying, "Gracias, senor."

 

Sunshine always graces the beaches filled with white dough bodies

as an ever-present desert wind whips up 

just in time for fresh fruit margaritas

and giant shrimp cocktails, and tacos of carnitas 

with white creme, green chilis, and red tomatoes.

 

The white of your flag stands for the Catholic Church who converted you,

religions of the indigenous ancestors 

buried now but stand indominable 

in ruins where blood ran like rivers of sacrifice.

And green for independence from the Americanos

who buy your goods as you say, "Bienvenido," which means welcome to our country.

 

Red for the blood of the Mexican heroes,

refusing to become our slaves, resisting even the Spanish 

who weaponized smallpox to destroy all and every

vestige of your civilization. O Mexico!

 

You have made peace with your tormentors.

For your many talents,

peace-loving is what I would call you, and survivors. 

You forgot the past so you could have a future.

Who can blame you?

 

Hold on, and keep holding on

to your pride as you bow respectfully to the Europeans 

as your children dress in designer everything

made in America.

 

The traditional sarapes and sombreros

are sold to the tourists while your children ask for

Nike tennis shoes that China manufactured. 

Swapping fashion for the Mayan and Aztec ways,

technology is conquering history.

Every nation has traded its heritage in some form 

for survival, convenience, and progress. 

Rolling forward in step with humanity,

not to be left behind in the swift march of technology. 

Adaptable, always adaptable, this American admires who you are,

O Mexico!

Planet Earth’s Door

When I was a child, I lived forever free,

imagining the world to be mine.

And like the bird I knew how to sing.

To my innocent will, the cosmos consigned.

 

But as I grew my wings did fall off:

the rain and years did wear me thin. 

The injustice of love made me scoff

I can scarcely recall the child I've been.

 

For life's bright magic fades away

with time, trials, and injuries deep.

No soul escaping its judgement day,

the adult within begins to weep.

 

Had I the choice to live once more

I would withdraw my hand from planet earth's door.

Poseidon

The ocean marked me. A jagged bottle beneath

branded my foot as blood gushed, a sandy sacrifice.

Payment for the joy the sea would give me all my life. 

 

Racing to the hospital in Dad's rusty pickup

a drunk driver swerved into our lane.

We flew into a ditch in funky Santa Cruz.

Ten stitches as I screamed, held by nurses with Novocain.

And the nice, familiar farmer who appeared on the scene

and vanished. An angel could have been?

I was branded at a young age by Poseidon of the Pacific. 

 

I learned to bodyboard, 

both terrible and glorious,

trusting instinctively that God would never harm me. 

Until I drowned in the muddy Russian river, or nearly.

Watching my arms floating freely in the dark deep.

Death was foreign, yet strangely comforting.

Saying, "But I was so young!" as my short movie played.

And then a man's arm as fast as a freight train,

as big as a redwood 

fished me out, infusing life into my corpse of a body.

I pull on my neoprene skin and look like a seal.

A senior who still plays like a child because she was branded. 

This is my domain as much as any sharks, so we must share.

I hold my breath as the stinging cold water tumbles me.

Laughter bubbles up and gets lost among the seafoam.

Salty lips as I swallow a wave that forces itself. 

Salt in every crevice stinging my frozen nose. 

Age has stolen my stamina, damnina.

 

The day I stop playing with Poseidon he can have me. 

Take my body and lay it beside the crystal sea where He 

will brand me with his golden trident.

No blood or pain, old age, nor death will beckon. 

This life is but a shadow of better things to come. 

Ripe and Ridiculous

Ridiculous circumstances are bound to come

like ripe fruit that rots.

Plucked from our sweetness by an angry sun.

The trees drop their heavy sacks

for the insects to feast and the birds to smack.

Never wasted, a Kerouac.

 

Expecting life should make more sense,

maintaining decorum and order.

Events are at random

and humans are deranged and disordered.

 

Nothing makes sense coos the coocoo bird,

do not push so hard.

You’ll be ripe and delicious

once you are in the worm-hacked graveyard.

 

If animals can feast on you,

then you

are ripe and ridiculous, too.

The Clandestine Years

The clandestine years crept up on me

wagging its chin, and with ogre ears

speak louder for I can't hear

wrinkly skin like an elephant be.

 

My senior friends come round for tea

I call them gently, "my dears"

for the clandestine years snuck up on me

wagging its chin, and with ogre ears.

 

At the end, barely able to see

then my mind will be crowded with fears!

As sundown comes and the darkness nears.

 

Yet in my heart a child runs free

though the clandestine years crept up on me. 

The Heart is Fickle

The heart is ever fickle

running after pretty eyes

then we're in a pickle

making excuses and telling lies.

 

Or looking back to a love gone by

yesterday seems finer

what we want we have already tried

it's like eating at the same old diner.

 

To satisfy the heart with now

is a trick we haven't mastered. 

Today has gotten lost somehow

for my heart's a fickle bastard.

 

O my heart, look within

to look without is a mortal sin. 

The She Inside

 I wish to be

the she inside,

to scale the mount

and brave the tide.

 

Yet, I and me

won't dare to dream

the way she does

with starry eyes.

Dancing in magnetic moon beams,

while I keep my heart disguised.

 

Of we two, I am half her size.

If only we could meet between!

Tragic Figure

 She was a tragic figure,

evoking quiet rebuke or pity.

Some peered through her warped glass as though they could see through her,

while to others she was as impervious as a veiled threat.

But her internal struggle could be seen by anyone who cared to look

which is why they all stayed missing.

 

The exterior of her life was painted in broad strokes

of red on a white canvas

and left to run.

Her insides quiet as a mausoleum on a dead day,

which is why she failed to invite anyone.

And only whispers were left where once the shape of a daughter stood.

 

She cared only for the naked truth,

a camel who carried her through the desert of death

where she would laugh at mirages.

No longer thirsty for her needs had been packed away.

A chiseled scowl darkened her brow

for the elements had whipped and cracked her spirit

as her world had once cracked.

A suspicious mouth, crooked as a fault line ran in an impossible slant

so her jagged smile cut like unapologetic razor blades.

Her countenance said: “If you even whisper, I shall shatter.”

Suitors admire from a safe distance

for there is no mercy and no middle road

for tragic figures like Lauren Bacall

and Lucille Ball,

and other dames who determined their fates,

whose gloved hands could only castrate.

 

Tragic figures are women, all

with a demented story to tell

of survival among society’s males,

but don’t you dare tell, 

no, dont you dare yell. 

Trilogy of Crashing Stars

Before the starry-eyed curtain falls,

before the last treasured memory fades

I look back to see we three standing tall

unaware that the grim reaper was bringing his blade.

 

I have asked myself a million times, why we?

Why take one so young, and tear a marriage asunder?

A shitstorm that ripped the branches from the tree

scattered like clouds we were running from thunder. 

 

Like a trilogy of crashing stars

each one concealing their hidden, private pain.

The two of us left standing carry the scars

and I think about the two of you every time it rains.

 

Don't forget me, and remember 

when you flew overhead

and we were crashing stars 

in the universe's bed. 

True Love Lost

When you think back on what could have been

when you are alone, your fortunes in review

when the years have delivered their half-hearted wins

for the guarded heart you safely withdrew

 

then will you admit when no soul can hear

then will you wail to know all that was tossed

then though the bell tolls in destiny's ear

your one chance at true love was lost.

 

No going back, nothing as severe

no time left for the star-crossed.

 

Despite divine decree you ignored the signs

month after month and year after year

until you became the tempest-tossed

and your true love died one thousand times.

What’s For Dinner

I fancy the same things for dinner.

I used to grocery shop and cook to impress.

Now it is all tomato sauce, pasta, frozen meatballs, and parmesan.

My well-rounded entrée.

More than liking Italian, a bowl of spaghetti is the comfort of sameness, of predictability. 

No major decisions at the end of the day. I know what I am getting, whereas life has been one big meatball of insecurity: a tangled ball of angst from appetizer to dessert.

Trying new food was once exciting, like trying women instead of men. Because I fell somewhere in the middle, I developed a taste for both. Curious, but now I don’t care much for either. I will stick with the sure and guaranteed.

Pass the cheese.

Tame

My home, my nest, my sweet, spicey abode.

Where my heart's at rest, my heart's at rest.

Safely tucked in a pocket that the sea bestowed

where I have been blessed, I have been blessed.

 

I don't have to see my mother, the sea,

to hear her voice roar in the morning.

Just to know she waits; she waits for me

and can rush right in, sometimes without warning.

 

There is a danger in every blossomed rose

when you pick a flower without a thought.

I have come to respect the sea's highs and lows

and to watch my fingers around the lobster pot. 

 

A lover’s never seized me, unreliable.

While nature's won my heart, justifiable.