Kind Words

The poem you gave me
(without realizing)
While we stood together
(there on the floor)
Such simple words
(so innocently spoken)
“After a hard day you are a comfort”
They made me smile
(and beam for days)

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Dismemberment

I am dismembered
Torn and tossed
Bits of me spread everywhere
My warm heart pulled from my chest

Even it isn’t whole
Here and there
Bloody bits are flung about
As far as the eye can see

Some still twitching
Hurting and hoping
To be cleaned and reunited
And stitched up in my empty chest

That dark hole
Idle and aching
A yawning cavity to be filled
With hope and affection

I pull myself together
Hunting and gathering
Stooping to scoop up the mess I’ve made
And reassemble it into something new

Moving Nursery

Sing us a song to sleep
With the soft sweet sound
Of wheel on rail

Hum us your wonderful white noise
Heat in the winter; AC in the summer
Keep us warm or cool and comfortable

Let us rest on your welcoming red lap
Broad and comfortable and cozy even
Relaxing and drifting us off

Rock us gently to sleep
Sway like a mother with a babe on her hip
Until our eyes all flutter shut

Ride through towns and cities
Roll along roads and rivers
Take us gently into the land of dreams

Nick My Skin

Small slights and little lies
Nick …. my …. skin
Doesn’t hurt when it happens
Only when I notice them
Then they start to weep or bleed

If I get enough of them
I’ll be cut to ribbons
My bones showing through
Sorry and exposed and sad
A fool and his pain on display

I wish could rewrap myself
In the tatters of my hide
And hide from the world
The truth of the lies
That touch and taunt
And hurt and haunt

I love how the river looks

In the morning, the wind ripples across the water
Crews creep between its green banks
Its blue is like the sky – but softer and closer

As the day wears on the water changes
Choppy and disorganized as more boats appear
Sailboats, duck boats, tour boats and kayaks

And then at night calm returns
The last breezes of the day gently brush its banks
And the river is left to reflect the quiet star-filled sky

Excess Observed

Sometimes he’s fine
Until he blasts himself
With marijuana, meds and booze

Then he’s a slate wiped clean
Refilled with gibberish
Slit-eyed and oblivious in shrouded spaces

Falling, bleeding, pissing
In a cloud impenetrable by sense or pain or shame
But not because he doesn’t care . . .

Groping – not for words –
But for speech itself – think-tongued and dumb
Failing to make his point

Lurching from scene to scene
Unseeing and insensible until the next day
When he appears – charming; if only briefly