A little death

The death begins when
you simply
walk into the room

First, you steal my breath
Then my thoughts
and all my senses

The rigormortis
of anxious
anticipation

stiffens each muscle
as you walk
in my direction

You kiss my flushed cheek
and this world
all but disappears

---
April PAD Day 18 - life or death

Black holes

I saw this hauntingly beautiful piece at the Portland Art Museum today and was absolutely struck by it; the hair, the ears, the neck, the shoulders look just like my son ... and the anguish just moved me nearly to tears. It's like someone took a psychic x-ray or the human I love most in the world and this is what they saw. Heartbreaking.

So, of course, I wrote about it ...


sometimes
I see death
when I look
into my son's face

there's
an anguish that
could kill him
clawing just below the

surface
of his skin
a zombie eating
his brain from inside

sometimes
i see the
look of anguish
as he claws at

life
begging to be
freed from the
killer inside, the black

hole
in his throat
that's so big
it chokes out life

---
April PAD Day 6 - ekphrastic

An eye for an eye

He closes his eyes and
tries to forget
all the times it was someone
else's eyes closed
forever in front of him


--

April PAD Day 30 - calling it a day

Full glass

It's hard to see the
glass as half
full or empty when it's
filled with the
blood of those you've loved

--

April PAD Day 22 - optimistic or pessimistic

Forget me not

Some would say it was
yours to give.

You probably would have said
the same thing.

But I would give anything
to forget you,

to un-remember your life slipping
through my hands

in a place so damn
far from home.



--

April PAD Day 16 - elegy

If I Were Your Heart

For Ryan ... I found your blog, reading the a heartbreaking ending just as the blood moon crept through the sky

If I were your heart
I'd be crushed
by the weight of those memories,

brothers bleeding before my eyes,
faces flushed red
like tonight's moon, eclipsed by the

darkness of my own shadow

--

April PAD Day 14 - If I were (blank)

"Words can't express ..."

They were waiting on her front porch
when she walked up the driveway
after a long day at the shoe store.

Their uniforms were crisp and clean.
Even from here she could see the shine
of their polished brass-colored buttons.

Even now as the sun was setting, she
could see the glints of light bouncing off
them as they waited for her.

They could have been there for hours,
standing somber and still, just as he had
for so many formal occasions.

And in the military, it all seemed formal.
They always stood so tall, proud, patient, official.
These two were the same, brothers

in a family she didn't yet understand,
staring at her and knowing perhaps
that she had expected,

no, dreaded, the day that the man in
the crisp, clean uniform on her front porch
was not her husband.

She wished she were back on the express
train, back at work, surrounded by the stale
smell of socks and sweat,

anywhere but here, walking this impossible road


April PAD Day 17 - express

Back to Jack

Back to Jack

The way my father tells
it, Great-Grandpa Jack
was a lawyer in L.A.

back in the days when
the city was
really beginning to take shape.

He walked out of the
courthouse one day,
fed up with the system,

and across the street to
a construction site
and asked for a job.

He never looked back.


The way I remember it,
it was hot
where he lived. He was

frail and his head shook,
a subtle nodding,
as he smiled at me

and my little baby sister.
I squirmed, not
understanding why we were smiling

and sweating at this house.
Perhaps they knew
that death wasn't far off.

We drove away and never looked back.


I was 6 or so
when Dad whispered
to my mother in the

upstairs hallway that Great-Grandpa Jack
had passed. "What
does that mean?" I asked.

"He died. Funeral is Thursday,"
Dad said. I
wanted to go with him.

He couldn't understand why I
wanted to mourn
a man I barely knew.

Perhaps I just wanted to look back.



--

Poetic Bloomings Memoir Project
Part 8: Death, be not proud

Changed

This time it's different. He's
changed, she says.
And she's right. The blood
that once flushed his cheeks
when she said
something wrong has turned against
him. The venom he's spewed
for so long
has finally posioned him, turned
him into a frail man
afraid of the
nearing death that he deserves.


Poetic Bloomings: Changes