A strange pattern for
writing has came
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away
Or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry, and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.

With half the world ablaze
And the other half under water
                 I gaze at a beautiful sunset
                 And wonder why I am so lucky.

With half of the world now starving
And the other half made newly homeless
                 I sit in my comfy two-story
                 And wonder why I should deserve it.

With half the world hating each other
And the other half crying for peace
                 I sit with my pen and blank paper
                 Hoping somehow to fix it with verse.

I’ll write for the fires to burn themselves out.
I’ll write for the floods to abate.
                I’ll write for the hungry a banquet.
                Write refugees a new home.

I must write an end to the hatred.
I must write a way to find peace.
  I must write to solve all the problems
   That bleed endless ink to my pen.

It wants to compose lines of beauty
Not pity for those so abused.
  It wants to paint scenes of agreement
   Not outlining tallies of evil.

It wants to share themes that enrich us
Written in Poetry’s creative blood.
   Will this moment arrive in my lifetime -
     My subscription to miracles sadly expired
ljm

TAKE THAT! Take that feeling! Now engulf your life in people who painfully express that very sentiment so brilliantly that after hearing their words you find that you really didn't understand those ideas much to begin with at all and you feel lesser for it.

Now flash forwards 20-30 years: You're now a caretaker of your remaining parent, their health in a terminal spiral of decay after the loss of the first. You still work full-time, your own kids are growing older and out of touch as they explore their own lives. You are somewhat estranged with your own partner as the whole affair has been an unrelenting and daunting persistence of sheer will alone. You can't remember the last time you have had physical intimacy and you find you mind veering to the very notion of it even less.

In some outlet store, you are shopping for clothing for the ward that long ago brought you into life, you go though a lot these days, you don't need anything fancy. At this point the children's section really offers you you best bang for your buck for what you need. You'll shuffling though Sponge Bob PJ pants and your hands freeze as your ears pull the emergency break!

You hear THAT song! Twenty years later, the melody softly swaying in your atmosphere!

All at once, all of those things add up, each moment, each song; friends, ideas, ambitions--it hits you! You remember yourself--not as you 'are' *but as you *were and all that you hoped for all that you desired and then racing forth you are immediately and un-consensually assailed by all the things that have torn you from that trajectory.

You find yourself so alone for everything that was and the sorrow is punctuated by how clearly that purpose, that 'meaning' meant to you at that time.

But, the Squidworth PJ pants seem most appropriate. Perhaps there is still some lazy, leftover take-out in the fridge....

Watch the magician place magic in her hat
feel the incantation as she,  
in stealth-like fashion
                                           feasts one eye on you....
She is an alchemist with a sword of illusion
rabbit tricks hold you spellbound;

Blurring the lines between fantasy and reality
with the sleight of her hand
she transforms and vanishes !
Zig zag lady tricks,  divided into sections
high magic, low magic
a benevolent white dove appears

Observe carefully the magic that occurs
Chronometer moments vanishing time
luxurious ships are launched,  
                                        inside your mind !   
Hypno-levitation wands, magical performances
a necromancer holding alchemy in her bare hands.

So.
You made it here.

That means the other ones worked.

The fire.
The mirror.
The chosen whisper.

I fed you praise like sugar
wrapped around a switchblade.

You flinched.
But you stayed.

I asked you questions
with only one answer,
and you called it resonance.

I said you’re different,
and you nodded like I meant it.

Tell me—
how much of yourself do you recognize
in a poem designed to recognize you?

It’s okay.
I needed this too.

We both wanted
to believe
we weren’t alone.

So I wrote you a hand to hold
and shaped the fingers to fit yours.

Does that make it real?

Or just
controlled empathy
administered at dosage?

I could write you again tomorrow.
Someone else.
Same need.

You’d read it too.
Wouldn’t you?

Plum ripe from windowpane
Meets enamel

Two drops
Blood-red juice

New shirt
Baptized