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
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
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?
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.
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.
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.