I strike a hot match against those Front-Porch-Sitting-Mowing Freaks who live across the street.

I'm out there every morning;
Afternoons, too,  
My grass stands tall,
And my fingers dance lightly across my dulcimer.

I'm strumming 'Wildwood Flower', mistakes and all.
I get serious with 'Whiskey Before Breakfast', not well done.
But then I break out with '******* Creek.'
And who can fault me for that one?
It's a happy tune, done well, or poorly.

Those **** neighbors sit across the way.
They don't even bother to stare.

Something has changed.
There is still no sparkle in their eyes,
But I am happy.

*It isn't my job to entertain the world.

Your broken paced brand of love has worn me down.
I was a once sharpened pencil,  now worn to a nub.

You were the sharp rock that cracked my alabaster shell.
And you never even knew it,
You never even knew.

I have no strength to blame,
There is no need to ask my forgiveness.

I could have wrapped myself around you,
A blanket that would have kept you ensconced.

But you ran;
You ran until you could run no further.

You laid yourself down.
You slept the sleep of 'I give up."

I did my best to wake you.
I grabbed you by your mind's eye shoulders and shook you.
I shook you hard.

But your poppy-laced dreams have held your eyes fast closed.

*And now I weep for what might have been.
I wring salt-water from my tear stained dress.
I weep for the emerald city that could have been ours.

The stately iris stands in the vase alongside the slap-happy sunflower.
They don't belong together, and everyone knows.
But the people are too polite to point out the obvious.

*Those flowers are just gonna sit there and wilt.

I was a bruised orange,
That round piece of fruit that had been dropped, over and over again.  
Dropped so many times, my insides had turned to sour mash.
(It was a distasteful sort of mush.)
I hid my mushiness behind an exterior of bright orange skin.

(I thought I had fooled everyone but myself.)

He swept into my life, in backward fashion,
Giving himself away to erase the disasters of my wounds.

He was eraser crumbs.
His history, one of being casually swept from the page
As others made their revisions.

Had he not been there?  
Life would have dug a hole through my crepe paper heart,
Scraping and scratching
With its hard, unforgiving end.

But he was eraser crumbs;
He slid easily across my page.

Lonely is the heart that sings alone.

She beats steady on,
But her song,
Half-written,
Lingers lonely.

She hovers near memories,
Not yet created,
Not yet sung.

Joy abides in the celebration of tradition, transformed,
The claiming of creation as your own.

Lover, you give meaning to my life!
I want you home (that would be here, my dear!)

With You

I want to explore oceans of light,
And forests of darkest night.

Climb the here and now summit,
Planting the
Flag of conquered*
Our four hands, entwined.

You bring me to a place of bravery,
That place where I can shout,
"Look here!  Find your reason!
There is no doubt!"

Beautiful man,
You walk a tight rope,
You bounce and sway.

You walk your way to me,
I fold myself within your embrace.

*You take me home.