Bequeathed of Grief

How dare this breeze, come call on me, for I am alone now, with my grief. Has it come to visit me, unannounced? I should have prepared tea for thee, and combed my hair, but you have come to tousle my curls, fashionably wind-blown, by your presence.  Do you not see, I am quite pensive here, pining for a friend, a lost love and years of my youth, before you came to touch the aging, etched around my eyes?
  Your presence comforts me, for the stillness is so debilitating, as if the hand has stuck again, on a clock, at a juncture at which I never wished to witness.
 Must I be reminded of the ticking moment, when all had expired, must this expiration continue counting minutes, asking me,” how much can your soul bear of this void, until it breaks you?”
 I’m weak. I broke at the first tick. Does this nakedness amuse you? My invisible friend, breeze of my grief, stay with me as I unwind, I want no other visitors. If am still alive, as the heart beat of clocks, then I want to feel every bone shatter, every muscle writhing in the knowledge that what was, is no more.
 My friend is clothed in Earth. She sleeps without the pain, she has bequeathed to me. My only happiness to inherit this albatross, if she is smiling now in the winds.

The Sky Is All I Have

If I wasn’t me, I wouldn’t have thoughts of you. The thought is all I’ve got. I stare into the sky, and with its faceless eyes, stars dotted, strung like lights to nowhere, everywhere, you see me there. 
This great cycle of birth and death, of seasons circling around, like clocks ticking their beating heart, is merely time without you now.  Neither the stars, nor clocks, or time seem to mind, we are apart. We walk and talk and write and work as if neither has knowledge the other ever existed.
Somedays, the sky is all I have. 

Letters Unsent #3 – “non-us”

It was like a contest, but more like an epic battle of two mortally wounded warriors.  Who could appear to live most comfortably in the ice capped weeks and months of silence..who would win the title of most unaffected when two worlds collided in one afternoon, by wayside of a dirty swollen river? Who had the best poker heart, who died most brilliantly and walked amongst the living? 
It was you, love, who unloved the love we wove, like a delicate vine, that crept like poison, fraying the hems of nothingness sewn inside. You mastered the nonverbal, you untouched and spewed out the delicacies of the word unheard and bolted the shutters.
The symphony was halted, unfinished. The conductor frozen with arms in the air.
Clumsily, I cling to all I have and will ever have of this “non-us”…just me and my pen..closet oldest friend. You’ve won, I retreat to paper connecting trails to some paint by number dream that has washed away in the absence of your mirage.

Noteworthy – Letters Unsent #2

I poured our pain unto pure white pages. Those words woven and sewn between the lines and veering off blindly in margins, was an antidote to our death.  We are noteworthy.  
Should the world of words not know? Shall it remain unwritten, without characters and commas and cursive motions, to unwind in prose?
 We no longer remain. We are just words now. Bold and stoic, standing at attention on pages, pleading for eyes to salute.
 Find us there, dear, living forever: punctuated, proofread and perfected.

Scent of a God

I sat upon
A park bench
I sat
Where you 
Had been sitting
To find you

Black shirt 
Dark jeans
Foreign tongue
Enter scenes
Scent of a God

Down my dress
You peeked
I smiled
With a nod
And looked away

We walked
To destination
Under the shade
A memory 
Sewn inside of me

But it was only
A memory
The scent of a God


I threw away the flowers today I had received as a token of broken vows from someone I once knew. To be correct, someone I once believed I knew. I didn’t know this person anymore than I now know myself. The flowers had been in an orange and green vase for several weeks. I would watch petals turn brown and crisp and fall onto the table. I would watch the flowers wilt. I would worry when they were gone, he would be gone, also.  I held onto dying rotting flowers in the hopes that he would hold on to me as we began to decay.  As the years shed and the core of our existence wobbled through the universe, unsure if it had the capability to survive the knowledge exposed cruelly and carelessly.  He bloomed as a deceiver. He was pathological in thought and deed. He was far from good in his intentions. The soil in which he grew was poisonous.
It was time to make the decision in the brave daylight, with a strong sun. I took the flowers and dumped them over the railing of an old wooden staircase. I watched them be airborne, their stillness, succumbing willingly to gravity pulling them to their final resting place, near a fence, hidden between an old white and blue aluminum house. They would decompose there……as we would.
The weeks pass and he returns. We walk on top of brick side walks planted centuries earlier, before the birth, death, and pain of ever knowing him, had transpired in the stillness of the stars. I see snow croci, purple, pushed up with faces being kissed by the bees. He is standing next to me. I am thinking I cannot believe after this man murdered me this winter, I am alive, next to him, near Spring, casting our eyes in unison upon flowers, and how love shares the same fate as flowers. They are planted and sprouted. They are cared for by the universe  and good intentions. They thrust through the Earth, open their core and pray for kindness. They are mistreated, at times, and they all wither in the sun, die in the frost, endure the betrayal of the same ground in which they bloom.
Spring is a slow beginner this year, and so am I. I have been living in the shadows of a sun too truthful to face, but the flowers are more brave. They face the sun, they burst, bloom and thrive because of the sun. I bloom brown. Despite the return of the warmth to the ground, I do not thrive. “Failure to thrive.”- I remember studying this phenomena as a psychology student, many years ago. Children raised in orphanages, who did not have the appropriate physical affection, grew at a slower pace, and had emotional retardations.
I poked my head up through the earth, bloomed brown, and did not thrive. I am like the decayed flowers I threw over the banister of the stairs, many months ago. On occasion, I would search through the weeds to find the flowers I had abandoned to the fate of dying alone, in the cold, below stairs, and onto an unsympathetic pavement. They lay there rotting, curling up, some petals still attached as if to show their undying loyalty to the  flower, even unto death, while other petals  disengaged and blew away, in the late winter winds, in hopes of being reborn to a new flower….as we did.


I don’t believe you will ever love me, as I’ve loved you, as you’ve loved another…it leaves me worn when the days plagues my thoughts, and banishes my peace…it pries my lids in the late evening hours, it leaves me a skeleton, in my own being, with a realization, it can come undone, at any moment, I breathe.
Why I could not be the one, to light your soul, and brighten your eyes, eludes me..Do you not know, I suffer the same symptoms, of panic and despair, the ones I comfort and hold you through, is an affliction, you return?
If I just break this bond, shall I then sleep in peace, knowing it is unleashed, and the suffering shall end? This bond, did it only live in my mind?  It was hidden and covered by was denied of an existence. The memories, manufactured, left insolvent, only a shadow, in someone else’s sun. 


Growing up in rural western Pennsylvania was not fun, not with my family. My father was a type A, rageaholic who enjoyed hunting and fishing and letting his family know he was dominate in every way in domestic life. There were beatings with a white belt, that hung prominently in the home, like an albatross at the doorway, passage to fury. My siblings and I were not allowed to spend the days playing in the summer. We were given lists of chores left on brown paper grocery bags on the kitchen table, by a man who meant business. One of my chores was to rid his large perfect yard of dandelions.
You had to use the perfect knife ” a pairy knife” he would say. Don’t try just picking the head off the dandelion, he knew you had done a substandard job. Don’t leave a big hole in the ground, when you used the pairy knife, that could earn a head slap and endless bereavements. Collect the murdered dandelions with a paper bag, and deposit them over the hill, so he could later supervise the job. He would patrol the lawn, me standing nervously in the background, he would squint his eyes, make faces to show his disapproval, that  I had left behind a leaf, a mark, or one stray dandelion turned fuzzy, bobbing in the wind, about to spread its seeds and cause an epidemic. There would be a melt down on a nuclear level, when I had failed at my dandelion duties. I always thought I would grow up and have a yard full of sunny yellow dandelions. I had learned their greens were good food, the flowers could be turned to wine. When I grew up and had my own yard, I would greet the dandelions all summer, and make my children worship them, make garlands for their hair, blow their seeds all over the yard, make wine, eat them at lunch, and celebrate the weed my father had loathed the existence of, as much as I believed he loathed mine.


I read the letter you wrote me …twice today..
I looked between every letter and line
To try to read your mind
Took special notice
In the way you made your A
I planted flowers today
I swept the porch grey
Found your sock
Under a rug
Thought you were a lost soul
It is so quiet all around
I hear the birds sing
And once you told me
In the park
It was your favorite sound
Just a little
I cried today
I know forever
We’ve gone away
I’m being brave
Talked to another man
Made a plan
To meet for tea
In hopes it keeps your thoughts from me
It worked well 
When you did it that way
I read your letter again
And again…. today





I know madness and she knows me
Longtime friend of the family
We’ve kept wonderful company
Genetics scorned by destiny

In our world of make believe
My companion loves to grieve
And in our laughter she keeps the tune
Of one who knows another’s moon

In abundance and every need
She is my left my right my creed
And in our world only she’ll
Know what is and isn’t real