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 May 2018 Kitbag of Words
L B
Do I love you?
Do I,
Love...?

The words have stopped
doubled over on themselves
in pain
unrecognized

In truth
I wouldn't know--
you, Love?
But maybe from a picture
thinking--
"This is from where the poems come?"

Having never searched your eyes
with mine
nor heard your voice
invoke me

Known your thinking
in any given moment
Nor you, mine

Nor watched your hands
for hints
endear
affection
in expressions

Could you forgive my mess of moments?
the lame that years have left
so slow circles
the lonely artless?

socially inept

I fear
you could not forgive the fear
for so long
left behind

How can you say
you love me?

By what assurance do you

Speak into my void
 May 2018 Kitbag of Words
r
I know I'm not easy
to love
I never was

It doesn't take much
to please me

And when you smile it does

I know some day
you'll leave me

That's just the way it goes
like when a gentle
summer breeze blows

But when you do go
go knowing that I'll know
you were the closest one

Take my heart and run
baby, take it on home

Take my heart and beat it
women, I won't need it
where I'm going.
Zen
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"...go to hell, purloiners!
you breached my trust...my privacy,
both, are sacred to me...
what about you?
...is anything at all sacred to you?"
:::
:::::
:::::::
It's been
three days and more,
of crossing fears...thinking,
how easily......and suddenly...
one's precious worded gems,
could be exposed to strangers' eyes...
to think that private thoughts can
no longer be private, is infuriating...
how does one deal with violated privacy?
i'm ailing...while drowning in dim streams
.....all assurances, now disputed
all negative possibilities considered
i'm paranoid...the devil is winning...

the stomach sympathizes
with a disconcerted mind
growling its discontent
creating deleterious acids...

mad, upsetting hours stay for a while
holes must be mended or patched...
what was disorganized ...must be straightened
got to start from scratch

these past evenings, i trod
through hot valleys bright with fire
burning with anger and disgust
...for, i felt betrayed,
never have i been this way before,

.....i must go back to the water.....

slowly............i wait,
'til i can look past those trees,
those walls....those worlds outside, and
from them, create a swinging hammock
tied on two coconut trees~~~then
feel a mist from a not so far clear, blue ocean
feel the breeze whisper its magic spell
to cool and melt the fires within
be at peace with everyone
with everything...

i must take hold of that space
where i'll float...and i'll forget
where i'll toy with the ripples
and be overcome
with
~~~~moments of zen~~~



Sally
...i keep on scribbling, even when i'm angry,
      'til i get to that moment of calm.
kind, caressing breeze,
its cadence reminds mother;
one with nature now!
My clock never told the time
and looked silently glum

lost its ticking rhyme
with the pendulum
uprooted to be muted
hands dismantled
so you can guess
it made no progress
sitting pretty still
as I went about on my will
set my own pace
not bothering about the dial's arc
but scheduled my work
according to my when
till declared insane
and sent to asylum.

Since I've been sitting pretty glum
like the dead pendulum.
 Apr 2018 Kitbag of Words
r
It rains
and I think of bales
of wet hay
crushing the wind
out of children
riderless ponies
with frayed rope
tied to the pommels
I find it hard to explain
eyeshadow and dead weight
tied to the other end
and girls who would like to
go on in this world
***** by their mother's
stepsons and husbands
the men and women
of learning have left us
so much, I prefer
to look at the moon.
I asked my son, “why are you crying.”
“I am finally in love,” he said.
And I knew it hurt, that forever
awkward landing, just to rise,
      so as to breathlessly fall eternal.

No longer in love with me, for
that must pass, but with the body
of his future, novel and bright
as the reveille of himself.

I am not strong. I turned away
as my limbs quaked, poisoned by that
curious concoction all parents
must drink if we wish to free

the future from our briny net.
One part pride, one part fear,
finished with a spit of envy,
guzzled down with rueful surrender,
      no longer the center of the fire’s dance.
And we led them there.
You can tell yourself otherwise,
but I know when my son talks
of drilling for an active shooter,
numb as waiting for a napkin passed,
that I have failed.

I know the annals of my promises to him.
I whispered them to him in the womb-
“I am very confused.”
“You might not want to be with me.”
“I will love you all I can.”
“I already love you all I can.”
“Sometimes I feel very
sorry for myself.”

I hope you can see this
for all that it really is-
the freakish spasms
of the white man finally dying.
If any part of you is
young, woman, or dark,
please, do not hesitate!

Please, save my son
from all the fears that the
powerful protect with guns.
I will be there with you,
but I have already failed
so I won’t be useful for much
asides as a shield
of rather flaccid flesh

proud of nothing much
asides from his life,
and my falling before
your march forward
into the dance of
more colorful light.
I am such a failure,
and I am echoing
the most refreshing
laughter during this recounting,
because while I wither,
I dumbly take
an interest in the gods.

They are right over there
just sort of swaying in the
magnolia blooms' creamy flow.
I believe their dance deciphers love,
but as agreed, I am too dumb
to understand. I only hope
that the new born's smile

upon my face, will beckon the rejoicing
of your tomorrows soon to come.
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