It is a breath,
the cold grip
close to it
calling forth
those deathly lips,

stringent
reactions
out of the
desperate actions
made to escape
what waits
for my weary
body.

It is another
inhalation,
the light
high
fractional
exhilaration
of succeeding
in taking
the air
that I am needing
and feeding
my body,

while death
lurks
ever
omnipresent.

Trying something new,
I release
the tense beast
of burden
I was holding onto
as I exhale
and forgive myself.

I play this weird word tournament
with the last scrabble vestments
of my weak will and testaments
wondering if the waterfall
will let me get soaking wet,
cooling this confused form that has been
constantly suffering from a state of
severely deep dehydration,
whilst waiting for some fall confession
to ease the coughing wheezing
springtime cornfield sneezing
antihistamine needing
allergy affliction.

Tuesday morning at Four A.M.
Gramma Smith turns over in bed,
Awake too early once again.
Her replaced hip complains
And a cramp hides behind her knee
And must be stretched and sent away

Fifteen minutes of not finding comfort
Informs her that it’s time to get up.
Legs hanging over the edge of the bed,
She searches the darkness for strength,
Knowing the minute she stands upright
Her back will seize and shriek with pain.

It only lasts a little while
Then settles into a bearable ache
As she shambles to the Loo
Before she can embarrass herself
With leakage she cannot control
The way she could when young.

Dry and on her feet again
She finds the way to her desk,
Blinking in the sudden light
From two lamps that fight each other
To chase away the shadows
That would make it hard to see.

Picking up her favorite pen
She starts to write a verse.
It grows quickly as she settles in
The chair that knows her shape so well,
And ink flows at a satisfying pace
To catch the words that tumble out.

But what she writes is this:

     Where are all the butterflies
     And Humming Birds of my youth.
     Where are the lacy Sweet Peas
     And the taste of lemonade.

     Where has all the music gone
     And groups of words that soar.
     Where are all the Chickadees
     And fleecy clouds at dawn.

She lays her pen aside and sighs.
The glamour that was living, pales
And leaves a morose gray behind.
Her words are serviceable at best,
And all the new ideas are old.
So she gets up and limps away

To where the kitchen still respects her touch,
And french toast is a panacea for her soul.
She searches for the words that would not come
And sips hot cocoa in vain hope
That there will be a reason to go on
And so the gun stays safely in the drawer.
                         ljm

My life is lived in small syllable increments.
little lovely vowels, daring darling delinquents,
that I play each day in this weird word game.

I sit still to feel the thin threads
that I borrowed for the finer verb vestments
that I might wear and share out there
on some sad shady morrow.

But for now, I bow under the wonder of the waterfall
letting the water rid me of the nasty sweat,
and sooth my harsh summer regret
of having achieved nothing notable at all.

It is a lonely god
who counts the ticks
on eternity’s
broken clock,

as time’s terrible
tidal forces
force him on
in a world
where all other
old gods
are long gone.

What a horrible place
where the last
of his race
lay in the waste
of human destruction.

The lone survivor,
late in life light shiner,
bruised body
who tried to
teach humanity.

His shadow sees
as much as he,
yet rests coolly,
while that immortal body
burns with sorrow.

Mushroom clouds
of bitter smoke
that choke the broke
cord of hope,

temperatures rising
as he is realizing
there will be
no great fantasy
or redemption
of humanity,
just a worried wanderer
who walks
on wavy ground
where no
joys are found.

I need a night long nap.
I need two more days of sleep.
I need a little more rest
to bring out the best of me.

My body doesn’t move
like it used to,
except for the jiggly parts
that burst through,
like a mushroom
overflowing
from my jeans.

My minds doesn’t work
like it used to,
all these words
do not flow freely
all these verbs,
they elude me.

I may be acting goofy
but it is because
I am super sleepy,
please give me
at least three more
hours before
I have to be awake.

Dear daughters of Eve,
sweet children who bleed
because god perceived
that he was betrayed
when your sire ate
the fruit we believe seeded
the knowledge that we needed,

and the punishment given
was the ability to conceive
in a woman’s womb,
the greatest boon
from said fertility,

oddly,
something
that a man can
never achieve
despite his raw virility.

So, the punishment
for gaining knowledge
is really a gift on both ends,
cause the fruit of your bodies
is where each successive
generation begins.

Here is a truth
when I do
what I do,
by not reaching out
to the few who
used to care
to stop and share
their time
and stuff,

then why should I
expect
when I get
back to myself
that they
or anyone else
would give
this ghost
any notice
at all?

Around here
they drink
**** yellow beer
that foams
at the top,
and they
don’t know when
they should stop.
So, after
those drinks and
a few shots
they drop.

Head spinning
ready for vomiting
cause they weren’t using
any common sense.
  
Around here
the sports channel
is always playing,
and people
are always praying
for their team
to take
the next game
straight to
the finals
and win
whatever
championship
they are
playing for.

Around here
smart mouths
come on
the faces of
morons,
and they
run faster
then anyone
can catch on.

Around here
they are all impulse
pleasure seeking,
no deep thinking,
just pushing
straight to the edge
and barely
stepping back again,
or finally giving in
and falling
all the way down
into the brown mound
of ground
the dig graver
left for them.

Around here
I live in a desert
seeking wiser sages
who long to
paint prose
on all the web pages,
and spread compassion
all over the place,

but it all falls
on deaf ears
around here.

She is made to speak
without words,
makes me weep
when she sweeps
her hands across
the wooden floor boards
raising them up
then dropping them
once more.
  
She is made to speak
with a well defined
unique physique,
strong and tiny
sparkling shoes
move as I lose
myself
and gain a muse.

A gazelle like
graceful rise
as she jumps
oh, so high
that I feel
angels will
drop from the sky
just to catch
her eyes
for a second.

She is made to speak,
with arms and feet
that move like
spiraling gas clouds
in the heaven,
a body that bends like
a sweet stream,
and she visits me discreetly
in my nighttime
and daydreams.

She is made to speak
and though I seek
to be near her,
I never get to hear her.
I only know her
from a distance
in the form of dance.