Inspiration Lost and Found

What will they sing about?
What will they write about?
Now their messiah has been crowned king
and all their troubles are ended?

How will they survive without the fury
that fueled them for so long?
Those champions of peace who
peddled their own version of war
in hate-saturated voices and
spewed their angst until our ears
rang with the violence of their words.

Their hero lauded and
the moment of jubilation passed,
they awake from victory to
find themselves bereft of
inspiration, deflated of purpose.
Words of beauty and love are a
foreign language their lips
have forgotten how to form.

While we who live peace and
strive to love all human kind
still find inspiration and
see beauty in our daily lives.
We will keep singing.
We will keep writing.
And in their silence
maybe we will be heard.

We have always known it is folly
to pin such hope on mortal man.
For one day, the facade will wear thin and
they will realize that tyranny has many
faces and evil more than one brand.
On that day, beware, messiah, beware
for they will find their tongues again.

A Heart in 3 Pieces

When I was in my mother’s womb
I broke my heart into three pieces

One, I kept for myself
Returning it to beat and pump
The other two I left behind
To wait for my sisters

When they came along two and
four years later respectively
Each had a piece of my heart
Clutched in her tiny fist

It’s not been easy
Having my heart in three different
Places at once. At times the pain of
Separation is too much to bear

For only when we are together
Can my heart be whole again

Mental Wanderland (Through the Windshield Glass)

The car idles in the drive-thru
He talks
but I don't really listen

Through the windshield glass
a crescent grin leers
out of the night sky
the outline of a cat body
almost discernable in the
glow surrounding it

Beware the Jabbertalk, it says
the tongue that wags
the teeth that clack
I laugh out loud
disrupting the flow of monologue
He asks what is so funny

"Nothing," I reply. "You were saying?"

As his discourse continues the
Cheshire moon chimes in
And shun the verbose box of chat
I stifle another laugh
but he is distracted
paying at the window

"Did you hear that? They don't have
any salt. Do you still want it?" he says
I answer yes without
looking away from the moon
It shouts, Don't need salt,
need pepper, more pepper!

I smile to myself
He stops talking and
hands me my drink
I look over at him
so classy in his black fedora
for a moment I think
He's the mad hatter

Then I say
"Let's go. We're late."

Show me Your soul

Show me your soul
no matter how dark
I won't look away.

I want to see past
skin, muscle, and bone
to the raw you,

Formless as vapor,
the part that
struggles to be free.

Show me your soul.
I do not fear the
monsters lurking there,

Being so familiar
with my own
creatures of darkness.

Show me your soul
no matter how dark
I won't look away.

Time for the Thaw

Sunlight pours down
and spreads through
stiffened limbs
like warm honey,
inch by inch
restoring life along
with grace.

The world relaxes
into color as
the outlook shifts
from gray to green.
SAD days are over--
time for the thaw.

Ides of March

Happy Ides of March! You may think it morbid to celebrate the day given its historical significance; however, the Ides of March has become more to me than the anniversary of Julius Caesar's death. It has become a family holiday for my sister and me--an inside joke between the two of us that none of our co-workers can understand since they don't share our literary tastes. As teenagers we had our own version of the famous prophecy associated with this day, "Beware the eyes of _______" (insert name of creepy guy that rhymes with March). As I said, only a true literature buff would see the humor in that.

But this year, the Ides of March has become more to me than just a literary inside joke. I have decided it is a day to celebrate friendship and loyalty, a day for true friends to stand by each other. Although for Julius Caesar this day meant betrayal, it does not have to be that way.

On the Ides of March
I do not say beware,
but take heart.

For when Brutus comes
I will be there
and others as well
to stand between
you and his knife.

With our loyalty
we will surround you,
protecting from betrayal
and willing, if need be,
to take the blow ourselves.

My friend,
on the Ides of March
do not beware, but take heart.

Mask and Miscalculation

The mask--
I donned it willingly
knowing full well the consequences
the sacrifices required

Yet somehow
miscalculating the placidity
of my own soul

After years of practice
I think I wear it well--
that frozen smile

But inside I
languish beneath the mask
drumming fists against
the rigid facade

Pining for a
few unfettered steps
outside the glare of
the magnifying glass

The choice I made
this visage I wear
weigh heavy on my soul
how long I can bear it
I do not know

Ode to a Seatbelt

Amid the crunch of
collision, such a small
thing wards off death in
the moment of slow-motion
crash, protecting from
the reckless hand of fate,
but not without cost.
Sighing in the instant
before impact, it warns,
"This might hurt a little."
Then steels itself for
the inevitable task--its
created purpose--and
when released from duty
bemoans the necessary
bruises it left behind.
Such a little thing, really,
yet with so great a job.
A small strip, narrow but
strong, the very reason
I am still alive.

this silence is killing me

Words crowd into my mouth,
burning my tongue,
pushing against lips sealed
shut by fear--the paranoid,
paralyzing kind.

To rid the acrid taste
I swallow back each
incendiary noun,
verb, and adjective, though
the action scalds my throat.

Before the pain can
subside my stomach
retches them up again
to begin anew
their acidic onslaught.

Why do I not speak?
How can speaking out
possibly cost me more
than the turmoil
of keeping silent?

No answer. For the
questions never leave my
head. Afraid to speak yet
tortured for not doing so,
this silence is killing me.

To Day From Night

O Apollo,

blazing golden in the sky,

ruling day from a chariot of fire,

think of me,

Artemis, pale goddess of night.

Imagine me

waiting in a shadowy glade.

Silver arms outstretched,

beckoning you

to my wild embrace.

O Apollo,

meet me in the dusky

hues of evening

and in the first,

gray light of dawn,

Where we--

twin halves of one soul--

can unite

and once again

be whole.

Media

I wish I could

slash anger across a canvas

that shrieks to be seen.

Or draw bare lines

whispering of loneliness

so that all who look

turn away with wet eyes.

I wish I could

paint joy in colors of the sun

with laughter pealing

from the end of the brush

so that hearts and the corners

of mouths are lifted.

But my paint-by-numbers hands

only copy laboriously

images conceived by another.

I content myself with words
and brush them across the page--

the only canvas I will ever paint.

Queen Mab Has Been With Me

Mab is waiting,
watching,
biding her time with fingers poised,
waiting for my eyes to close.

I fight to stay awake.
Futilely.
Her nearness soothes, lulls,
opiating the darkness
until sleep enshrouds me.

Barely conscious, I
attempt to evade, but
the ground is sand--
loose and crumbling.
Her fingers overtake me easily,
clutching with paralyzing grasp.

My mind numbs.
I am slave to her nocturnal deity,
pliantly tasting the visions
concocted from her arsenal of
romance, insanity, and terror.

Into my sleep-steeped brain
she ladles the chaotic brew,
flavored with emotions strong enough
to taint the first few hours
of my waking day.

She reigns supreme until
daybreak loosens her tyranny and
I struggle in her grasp, finally
pulling myself awake, shaking
away illusions clinging like cobwebs.

I curse her power to
rob me of peace, of rest,
and plan anew night's escape.
Mab watches unfazed,
waiting,
biding her time with fingers poised.