The lines fell inert on my ear
Their taste indistinguishable
New words appeared tangible
I'll inhale these instead

Hidden Gate

The ivy covers the pathway. It's opening just as obscure. The vigorous fight dually noted. There doesn't appear to be a victor. This way hasn't had much company, at least it doesn't appear. All who stopped by didn't sign the visitors log complete with time and date.

At the end of the road we expect more than a bowl of pistachios. Something more to stand in place of our suffering and travailing. Anything just short of a parade where people line up and habitually wave as you pass by is an insult. After all you did leave your guts splattered in a ditch along the way--without complaint. Images regurgitated from the floors of our bowel duct display like old home movies played on reels revisit hoping to find relief. The bitterness is more than we can handle, but to release them would cause us to declare ourselves whole. This would of course require further action on our part. To let go of the written form letters we submit as excuses as to why we didn't and can't bring ourselves to turn the corner. The side streets are alluring but the broadway is well routed.

Willow II

Draped in winters dressings
You still call to me
Let me lie down beneath you
Your body’s warmth is what I need
The white snow is pure
It’ll hide our lack of innocence
Cover us on a dark winter’s night

We Stood in the Cold

We stood in the cold waiting for the one who has indoctrinated us into this ideology of hope above fear. A preacher, messenger maybe even a prophet, who believes so deeply in what he speaks we believe it too and allow our doubts to shatter. One ordained by God and not just voted in by man. So we stood in the cold waiting on a dream to be fulfilled and America's new tomorrow to begin.

I still haven't fully processed the events that I witnessed first hand yesterday when I attended the Inauguration Ceremony of the 44th President of the United States and the first African-American in our country's history. Although I have written some about President Obama and how I feel, a poem hasn't come to me yet. I'm sure it will or at least I am expecting one to as soon as I digest within my soul what has taken place. For now, I'm full, I wept, I rejoiced as my President, our President took his oath and spoke so honestly to the nation. ........to be continued.

Forward Vernacular

Life's a bitch! Like a vindictive female ready to mangle any other woman who enters the room threatening her position in line. The lioness can smell the aroma of another mixed with the sweat of fear, she prances in ready to invade this domain and piss on her prey. This ability to extract from life what she wants is innate. A quality camouflaged by etiquette, but don't turn your back on her. Her words are as smooth as butter but there's war in her heart. A war waged to satisfy her bloody appetite. They stare one another down dancing their dance of contempt. They strike one another while their prey lies in wait. Standing there witnessing this display arouses him. He smiles as he knows he'll be satisfied with whomever is left standing. He waits for the victor to come and partake of the fleshy spoil.

Whispering Wind

We stand in the wind as if its bite has no effect. Daring it to knock us level to the ground.
We mock the naked trees and envy the tumbleweed. Still the vacated cave can't stop its whispers.

Flirting at the edge of the outer perimeter, I'm daring myself to step outside the boundaries drawn so long ago. Unsure of the texture of the soil, safety has always prevailed. Until the known became unknown and the unknown became intriguing. There is a season permitted for exploration and when the time passes the aperture is sealed. To have a break to expand again is a gift. Fear is persuasive but fresh air is satisfying.

Rain

Bare, left alone but
light graced me then
my strength covered
the souls now mine has
been stripped from within
and only the rain will
dress me again.

I became a woman before I finished being a girl.

Le Ritmo

The wind is moving in half time
the bass trembles under foot weighing down
keeping everything from floating away
to another place where one's name
isn't known by everyone that passes by
and collective whispers that invite one to listen
afterwards pretend that they didn't hear the unspoken
clefs to be forgotten until the evening news
when the songs of the day gather to be chanted
and then the notes sound repetitious.