Poetry

Night crawls into dawn

As the superstitious ones

make the warding mark.

Thankful to have survived

yet one more night

the sun’s rays warm their skin.

Who else could be so hideous

as to do those unimaginable things?

Humans do hurt

each other.

Are the monster real?

Or is it that sometimes

we place the blame

where we don’t want to look?

Befuddled.

Muggy thoughts.

Slow to action.

Prepared to relax.

Crisis unfolding.

Brain kicks into high gear.

Body launches forward.

Adrenaline saves the day.

No going back to sleep now.

When human contact is desired

and shedding season has arrived

More cat hairs end up your nose

than you aspired.

But really

could you say no

to cuddle time?

When you discover

The meaning

Of a word

You have performed

Everyday

Only to find

Yourself laughing

As you are washing

Your face.

Young and foolish

You laugh at the idea.

Ridiculous and entertaining

It amuses you.

Older and less agile

When it happens

The chagrined expression

Still is amusing

But less funny.

Also paying for the broken piece

Is not as much fun.

What do you learn about yourself

when you wake up

remembering that horrible dream.

Not a nightmare

since the horror you felt

was revulsion

for having done a criminal act

and shame for hurting someone else.

Does this mean

self confidence and self worth

still need to be worked on?

Time to book the next therapy appointment.

Wads of Money.

Yeast infused Tastiness.

If I were a Baker

I would not be successful

since I would eat

all of my products.

The scars carved upon your soul

Are there for you to bear.

The trauma and the pain

Are the legacy left behind.

Those who left will never return.

But our memories

bottled up inside

will be the one thing

that keeps those moments alive.

You will hurt yourself

each time you remember their name.

So does time heal all wounds?

Or do you only get release

when you too join them

in the grave?

It happened one night.

Supper to be.

The bag of frozen peas.

Slipped from tired hands.

All over the stove.

All over the floor.

Some in the pot

but more rolled out the door.

Days later

the broom still finds

a lonely last pea

swept up from behind

the fridge.

Wash.

Dry.

Fold.

I have started

The first two.

The last

I leave to you.