You sent me a message. I ignored it.

You sent another.  I sent a one word reply.

So you ask, “Are we ok?”

I want to answer. I really do.

No. We are not ok.

You are ok. And i am ok. But we are not ok.

I want you to know.

I want you to know what it feels like to spend close moments together for years… And have your lover-friend go out of their way to avoid letting anyone know.

I want you to know what it feels like to be called a “Fallback” in a joking way, but not as a joke.

I want you to know what it feels like to watch your lover-friend return from a trip with you, and talk of the days, the weeks, like you were never there. As if they were having an illicit affair… But neither of you are married…

You should know the pain and humiliation of knowing that they were just too embarrassed to admit they had been with you.

I want your heart to crush when your lover-friend meets someone else, travels and spends time with them, and proclaims he was with her from the rooftops to anyone who will listen…

Because the new one isn’t a fill-in.

They are important. And worthy. And wanted.

And you are not.

But i can’t say it. I can’t. Because as hurt as i am, part of me feels i deserve it.

Part of me loves you too much to wish the pain on you.

And all of me knows i could have stopped playing along ages ago.

The need to be loved is stronger than any other, and we fill it however we can.

Even if it means making ourselves disposable.

Even if it means trusting in a person who won’t admit they know you, and doesn’t care enough to see how much it hurts.

So, no, we are not ok. We are not.

I am angry. I am hurt. And the pit of my stomach sinks deeper.

Because i was the friend, the lover, you couldn’t admit you had.

And you, my friend, are an asshole.

 

 

It’s so green today.

Green and bright.

The sky is clear, and the breeze blows warm into the early Spring day.

I walk to the cemetery.

The soft rolls of the hills, covered in star creeper.

Sweet and innocent.

I sit and rest and

Think of you.

 

This day should be grey and dreary

With the sky crying slow, wet tears.

But it never is.

Your day is most often gay

And colorful

And delicious

And perfect.

It defies my insides…

My heart is angry and it aches.

But you

(I know it’s you)

Causing your day’s splendor and radiance to tell me

All is well.

 

Don’t be sad, Momma.

Don’t be sad.

Look at all this glorious day and see me.

See what i became.

I am the chartreuse of the grass,

The soft rustle of the leaves,

The scent of first blossoms of Spring.

I am here.

At the beginning,

Before you knew me.

Back where we all start and end.

And i will be here when you get here.

I will be here always.

You will hold me one day

On a day like today

And we will be this Spring day together.

 

 

In my bleak midwinter i sit,

The grass dead and trees barren,

My breath like the fog on an abandoned pier

In a Bogart film.

Grey and opaque.

My bones are shaking from the chill in the air,

Or my past,

I know not which,

And they make a frosted mug that holds

The slush of my bleak midwinter soul.

The cracking of dead limbs as they drop to the ground form percussion.

The whistling wind sings both melody and harmony

While the squirrels make the bass lick of the shortest day.

My Bleak Midwinter Suite, first movement.

Final movement.

Cold and shallow.

Cold and shallow and yet

Beautiful still.

The cheers of cardinals over the sound of the empty landscape,

The crunch of little paws on frost covered leaves over the mush of mud semifreddo,

The smell of hickory smoke overlaying the metallic scent of the cold ozone.

There is still beauty to please my eyes and ears and nose

And to feed my soul.

For even in the bleak midwinter,

A stone will warm in the sun.

And once heated, radiate and

Warm everything that it touches

Just a bit.

Just enough

To stave off the victory of my bleak midwinter.

Would that i will be that rock,

Warmth in the midst of cold.

Would that i will be the cardinal,

Color in a sea of greys.

Would that i will be the sun,

The eventual vanquisher of

All bleak midwinters

Starting with my own.

 

 

Nature is loud tonight.

Cicadas and crickets playing their tunes.

Tree frogs and stray cats singing along.

Owl hoots and bat wings setting the beat.

Thunder rolling in the background like

The rattle of speakers too small for the music.

My pup’s nails click as she trots down the road,

Her occasional pause to sniff and snuffle

Like jazz scatting.

The hard road is just a few yards away,

But i can barely hear the cars over the din

Of the gloaming.

The scent of the mimosa trees is so strong and heady,

It becomes an opera of its own.

The feeling of the damp and warm air –

The cork in my sound booth.

My own, personal concert.

Just me and The Goddess.

Gaia is drowning out my thoughts,

My worries.

She, the Mother of all Mothers, is enveloping me.

I drown in Her embrace

And am grateful.

 

Be gone!

Be gone, i say!

You have no power here!

you do, but i wish you didn’t

How dare you.

How dare you behave as if you are entitled to all this.

and why do i keep letting you live here rent free?

All this before me is the Queendom i have made.

No leg up.

i forget that i have power of my own

Those who live in the castle are my choosing,

and they have earned their way in.

but i have made far too many exceptions

I care not about the rules of your own kingdom.

These are my rules here.

My laws.

laws of kindness

Be gone you,

The purveyor of my own personal hell

Who leaves the black tar of despair in your wake.

Be gone and leave me.

Come back! Come back!

The pain and sorrow are too much to bear.

The boiling bile beneath the surface waits like lava

in a fissure

beneath a freshly and frequently paved road.

over and over again

I raise my scepter and pound the ground.

Be gone!

Be gone, i say!

Take your oily hot anger and pour it elsewhere.

let my insides stop burning

Be gone!

Be gone, i say!

You have no power here!

but my voice breaks as i say it,

because i know it isn’t true

 

Sitting on the porch while the storm rolls in.

Exhausted from work overnight

and a very taxing week.

I watch the rain and imagine

She is washing the week away.

The thunder rolls are the Universe

telling the stress and wear to be gone.

The Wind is pushing the weight of the week

out of my Sacred Space

as if the strain were

a guest that has overstayed its welcome.

Be gone and leave me.

Almost before my eyes,

the grass gets greener,

the blossoms shine brighter,

and the birds sing louder.

The houses and cars and trash bins look newer.

The air smells sweeter.

What a gift is this –

That the undesired forecast bring such baptism.

The flow of water without,

a template for the flow within.

The Universe

in all Her Glory

encourages me to follow.

The feeling of accomplishment

Dirt under my broken fingernails

The cacophony of wind chimes

Out of tune but still beautiful

Like a 4 year old singing

Amazing Grace

Bamboo and Mimosa saplings bent in the breeze

Bottle bush reflecting the sun in cobalt and olive

As it sinks

My morning’s work newly watered and

Smelling of manure

The leaves green and green and green again

With purple intertwined

Buds of red and pink geranium

The scent only in my mind til they bloom in full

Seedlings of tomato and pepper

Herbs

Both delicate and rustic

In colorful pots strewn about

And in the center

At the bistro table

Mug of tea growing cold

I sit in the splendor of

My makeshift garden and watch the

Garden spinners approach takeoff

There will be no award for this

Upcycled driveway

Unless you count fresh salads and

Pesto

That will come in time

And the mornings spent sipping steaming hot

Mugs amidst the color

And comfort

Of an ersatz Eden

Made with my own two hands

As the birds serenade me with

Their sweet melodious songs

Paradise

 

 

I know, little boy.

I know how you feel.

It’s hard to share the spotlight.

And i tell you now, he will hog it.

He is new

And small

And smells like powder.

And there will be days when you feel like your achievements are overlooked

Because he is all those things.

But i promise you,

They still love you.

They still think you are wonderful.

He is no threat to your awesomeness.

You don’t need the spotlight for you to shine.

And when he is always younger than you

And gets scared

Or worried

Or sad

You can be his nightlight~

Casting a bit of brightness into the dark.

Til then, know that you are seen.

You are loved by your parents.

You are special.

And every first born who knows how you feel

Is there for you.

We’ve got your back.

Welcome to the firstborn club.

 

What is wrong with you?

You don’t listen to the whole opinion before you declare it wrong:

A stomp on your rights.

A disgrace to our forefathers.

Closed to compromise and blind

To your own rhinoceros hide.

If you are so committed to your view,

What are you doing to help it come true?

 

What is wrong with them?

They are supposed to be representing us to the ersatz leader

In the Big White Building.

Huge conference rooms set aside for compromise and action

Plates of donuts and stale coffee

Aides and press and soundbites

But no change.

If they are really there to serve the public,

Why don’t they translate our anger into action?

 

What is wrong with us?

We are outraged on social media

Screaming at our inflexible friends who won’t hear compromise.

We post news articles and memes and

Send up thoughts and prayers for victims and families.

Crying as we hunch over our laptops.

Wishing things were different.

If we are so horrified at the atrocity

At the deaths,

Why aren’t we more involved in life?

 

What is wrong with me?

All these years of wanting to see change.

But work and weedlings and life took so much time

That i felt i had none to offer.

Now in my silver years, that is no longer an excuse.

I am intent on making change

In myself, to start

And have put in some effort to get involved.

I can’t do everything

But i can do something.

If i knew it was this important to give even a little,

Why has it taken me so long?

 

 

I won’t be bullied into going that road.

It’s a slippery slope that i’ve slid down before:

You get what you want and i

Get broken.

Each pitch off the edge taking a bite from

My ego, My pride. My self.

Your look that says,

“Your ass is mine.”

With a sexual bent devoid of feeling,

As if those vile words are a gift

That i don’t deserve.

I know you think i like it.

You think my silence is some kind of benign acquiescence.

A deliberate surrender.

An affirmative capitulation to your exemplary manhood.

But it is anesthesia, pure and simple.

The somnolence of cultural propaganda

The  paralyzing fear of loneliness and discord.

And your failure to see that tells me you are

To be trusted with neither my flesh

Nor my soul.

Your blind insistence that my ass is yours

Belies the truth that you are my ass:

The stubborn and id-driven

Schmuck

Who cares only for his own wants.

I’ve no need for a pack animal who refuses to carry

Any burden.

Any responsibility.

Any truth.

I am choosing not to be broken.

I am choosing not to be silent any longer.

I will be strong.

And true to me.

And your narcissistic self can

Kiss my ass in your mirror –

Which is the only place you’ll ever see it again.