Rain, Rain

That beautiful sound of rain as it first begins to spatter down from the sky. It makes my soul happy. A wry smile begins to curl from my lips as I hear the first low murmured rumbling of a thunderstorm on its way. Book in hand, blanket on my lap, and a mug of chamomile tea close by. This is my heaven.

I can feel it coming in the weakness in my ankle. The only weakness I don't mind at all as it signals one of my favorite comings. In my mind I conjure the feeling of the warm, sticky pavement beneath my feet as I smell the acid of wet earth. Rain itself is an oxymoron--warm and cold combining together to create something so cleansing and beautiful.

I smile as I realize I have forgotten to shut the kitchen window.

Oh my soul

Her shoulders are hunched and defeated now.

Her eyes glazed and glossed from

years of staring straight ahead.

Eyes that are, for the first time, turned downward.

They stare at her tattered apron and

secondhand shoes,

but see nothing.

Her mind is far away, yet so near

A single sound could snap it to focus.

She is tired.

She aches for rest.

She has demanded it.

And so, here she is.

Her silhouette frail against the 

Northern wind

She stands along the bank of the river

and remembers being young and careless

And wades in.

There and Back Again

Driving through the city at almost midnight,
and I realize for the first time how much the streetlights
look like stars and constellations,
guiding the lost souls home once again.

Speeding along the thruway I feel
as though I'm rocketing through space,
watching in awe as all of these bright beacons
float past me.

I wonder how easily lost an airplane might become
with both stars above and stars below
to guide it...
Or would it find its way more easily with two guides?

The beauty of the city captures me,
and I fall in love once again.

5am Flight

The direct light from the overhead
above my 3rd row seat
acts as a spotlight to the
scratches and sprawling of
my early morning whims.
I linger in the absolute, crisp
lines of shadow
listening to the murmured voices
of passengers around me.
I feel as though my writing,
this writing,
is on its own stage.
Offering a performance to those
who deign to crane their necks
and venture at deciphering
my harried combination of
print and cursive.
The voices grow, my performance
drawing to a close.
I return to my books, offering
their words the stage presence
they have already achieved.

Six Words

Thoughts buried, she digs me free.

Anxiety floods, she is my raft.

Adrift in thought, am I lost?

Mind wanders, body follows, but where?

Peek Through the Blinds

The initial hit
the unexpected transition
from overflowing, childlike joy
to anxiety, anger, frustration.

Sometimes you feel it coming.
creeping its way into your thoughts
you cling to the last shreds of happiness
bolstering yourself up against the oncoming storm.
Other times it hits you like a brick
and it's hours before you realize
the change that took place.

But I've only been riding a high for TWO WEEKS
you scream into the surrounding empty spaces.
the previous low lasted over a month.
you're unsure you can do it again.

needing a reason to wake up every morning.
needing an hour just to pry yourself from those soft flannel sheets.
needing the reminder that a world is out there if you'd only
peek through the blinds.

Take Two

She Moved and Didn't Take Anything with Her

Armed with a wrench, she broke into her home,
taking only what would fit in her car:
family heirlooms,
her books,
their dog.
Her dignity.

He called his family to join in the judgment,
to see what this wretch was doing to their boy.
Rather, they watched her take
Her Dignity.

She moved and didn't take anything with her.
Not the rumors.
Not the lies,
the deceit, adultery, abuse,
the easy way out.
She moved and didn't take anything with her,
But Her Dignity.

When you only cut off the branches, what remains

We are here as omens

     my brothers and me.

We stand here erect 

     dismembered, disemboweled

The quaint view of this peaceful land

     jarred and jolted by our presence.

The master of the house,

     we call him Vlad

He has taken our lives, our limbs,

     our souls

He has put us on display for all others to see.

     A warning 

of what their fate may be.

Empty

That haunting silence of night.

Perpetually echoing the loneliness and solitude confined to an empty room.

An empty bed.

The constant ticking of the clock my only companion. 

The clammy sheets my only warmth.

There was a time the night was filled with music, warm, welcoming.

A time when I was whole.

Before I met any of them that ripped me apart and left with shards of my heart to mount as trophies on their mantels. 

The night used to be my home. 

My solace, my comfort, my peace.

Now only the silence haunts me.

The music has gone, the life, the contentment.

All gone.

Left.

Silence.