I will remain.

The grass is green getting longer

in the summer

there’s a barbecue and I’ve

got this rice paper journal

it’s eternal

like the sun over Nepal.

Now there’s these two little blue birds

singing softly, shadow dancers

on the lawn

I’ve got this quaint little feeling

there’s a reason

for the bull skull on the wall.

A plane flies overhead

a sky of blue, a sea of red

mountaintops and forest bed

remain…

The grass is covered with snowfall

in October

frosted snow caps on the lawn

yet still those two little blue birds

nesting softly

they sing their joyful song.

I lace my boots fill my canteen

need some relief

from the city full of drums

rucksack and trail unwinding

I’m reminded

of my love for everyone.

The rocks and sandstone bend

leaves fall from tree, I comprehend

there is no time still consequence

remains,

I will remain.

turning sadness into song

My guitar as of late

has been bringing me

all types of sadness

but it’s a happy sadness

it’s a healing sadness

it’s an honest sadness

I’ve fought so long to forget

that it’s funny how

with no one listening

except the walls and this

box of cous-cous

I haven’t yet opened

but sort of sing to

as it’s eye level on the shelf

where I put my phone to record

I am able to free myself

one melody at a time

turning sadness into song

and song into myself

I sing.

oblivion different reasons

Myself

explored expressed explained

oblivion different reasons

over and over and over again

exposing what I’m feeling

though it never really quite makes sense

unless there’s someone healing

who kind of sort of gets the gist

and cradles their own meaning.

One for the kid trying to be strong

The other day

I had a good cry

but to tell you the truth,

I really don’t know why.

Perhaps it was the past

or future, or present

it doesn’t really matter though

just so long as it happened.

Because sometimes the universe

can make you feel ill.

Other times though it can give you a thrill.

And on those occasions where

the walls trap you in

it’s natural to flood your way

up and out again!

Staring at the Blank White Ceiling.

In a perfume spoiled bedroom.
On a rain soaked summer’s Sunday.
Under a bleach white canopy.
Lay a girl ensconced.

Holding close, her Care Bear, she pondered.
When would be the right time to tell the truth?
Or.
Was the truth even worth telling?

Staring at the blank white ceiling.
It had felt right at the time.
Almost natural.
As a result of her seeming neglect.

Though now looking back – his eyes,
his lips, salty from pork-chops –
the way he abruptly reached for her crotch,
now all seemed wrong.

How could he (i.e. not the crotch grabber) do this to her?
Her mind shifting gears now.
Forgetting the one night loss of self,
and remembering why she’d felt so alone.

It wasn’t her fault.
She wasn’t the one who left.
She was the one making the real sacrifice.
Yet why it all felt so wrong she couldn’t quite pin point.

Her makeup had always been done.
His needs, to her knowledge, were always met.
And she always made sure to tell him, she loved him, didn’t she?
Yet now lying in bed, she couldn’t fight back the tears.

Damn him and his selfishness.
How could she be so stupid to believe his lies.
She kept telling herself that they were lies, lies, lies.
But knew deep down they weren’t, they couldn’t have been.

After confessing the truth, over the white cordless telephone, her chest felt lighter.
A warm wave of relief quickly rushed through her veins.
A relief that she knew would not last.
How could anything last in a world so concerned with change?

It was nearly 10 o’clock, which meant reruns of her favorite television sitcom would be on soon.
Wiping her face with a rice pad, and brushing her teeth, she knew she did the right thing.
Telling the truth gave her validation, a confidence that could not be smeared.
She was tired of being the so called doormat.

She lay, transfixed, to the images and sounds emitting from the pleasure box on her nightstand.
It was the one where Eric and Donna share their first kiss.
It reminded her of many kisses that had been kissed.
And left her befuddled all the same.

Not liking this feeling she turned off the television.
Awake in the dark she could feel her heartbeat, beat-beat, beat-beat.
This was and was not her fault – she’d never eat a pork-chop again.
What really hurt, though, was that things would never be the same.

Yet in the back of her mind.
Tucked away in the dream she had that night.
There was this feeling.
A truth, that she was alright with that.