Chainsaw

The subtle bouquet of life’s leafy green
devoured by the hot friction of steel.

The sun-ripened sweetness of deciduous flesh
rendered to powder by man’s industrial teeth.

Tears of sap flow, leaves scattered like severed fingers
curling inward towards rigor and death.

The idling beast surveys the remaining victims,
a forest’s death row awaits the next execution.

True Nature

How freeing it must be
To be the wind.
No conscious destination,
Just free-floating whimsy.

No shackles of debt or love
Or need,
No restraint of one’s nature,
Just being.

To be the wind
Is to be softness and light.
Sometimes fierce;
Never insignificant.

If I were the wind
I would endlessly caress my darlings,
Glory in the loving touch
Never marred by want or greed.

The Bitter End

A labored breath in, a shuddered breath out,
I struggle to see through the darkness.
Whispering voices, mournful tones,
All talking about me…I am here.

Stray comments waft past my consciousness –

“…such a great mom…kids will miss her…always there…”

Am I supposed to be proud?  I am angry.

I was so much more – but no-one saw, or cared.

 

A childhood lived, but not experienced,

My passions deemed unsafe; improper; unwise.

Afraid I’d get hurt; afraid I’d choose wrong.

All was chosen for me.

 

Others’ expectations, so confining,

A spirit straightjacketed by good intentions.

I took those lessons into the world

Where they continued to shackle me.

 

I can’t travel the world, I need to work.

I can’t quit my job, we need my check.

I can’t start a business, we need my benefits.

No time, never time, for me.

 

Now it’s too late, no time left to be me.

No accomplishments of my own.

No obituary for me, there is nothing to say.

Nobody knew the real me.

 

The darkness spreads, the voices fade.

I try to speak, one last chance to be heard.

For someone to know who I am, who I was.

I was here – Why did no-one see me?


I was here

 

He Is Mine

His essence slowly fills my mind,
His touch lifts me to rapture.
His eyes burn, and melt.
This is heaven.

His strength weakens me,
Desire overwhelming with demand.
He is substance, and scent, and flavor.
He embraces me.

Shrouded by his heat,
His fire brands my soul,
His insatiable hunger,
Gorging on me.

Quiet now, we lie entwined,
Rough hands roam luxuriously on my skin.
Exquisite release our gift.
He is mine.

“Someday” never comes

A little girl lived with unspoken dreams,
Others expectations met first.
Escape at eighteen, desires anticipated.
Now it is my turn.

What do I do to find my life?
This is your life, they say.
Finish school; find a job; get married; have kids.
Ok, done – now is it my turn?

The kids need shoes and lessons,
The car and roof need repairs.
My husband starts his own business.
When is it my turn?

The kids are grown, the house paid off,
The business is a success.
My hair is gray, my reflection unfamiliar.
Now is it my turn?

My children all have children.
I still wait for someday to come.
My family all say they love their life.
What about my life – when is it my turn?

My time has ended, the light grows dark,
My voice silenced, I sink to oblivion.
One final thought my last link to this earth –
Why was it never my turn?

Don’t wait for permission to live your life.

Midlife Crisis Soliloquy

To dye, or not to dye: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The evidence of outrageous aging,
Or to take arms against a sea of gray hairs,
And by coloration end them? To dye: to cover;
No more; and by hiding the gray we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That looking our real age is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d.  To dye, to cover;
To hide: perchance to go blond: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that color change what dreams may come
When we have shuffled out our front door,
Must give us pause: do we look young and beautiful,
Or like a decrepit Mae West?
But why should we bear the whips and scorns of time,
The mirror’s truth, the proud woman’s shame and
The pangs of lost youth, craving time’s delay,
Bad enough the insolence of wrinkles and the bifocals
That we must now wear every damn day,
But…that patient merit of the unworthy salon,
Where the hairdresser herself might her error make
With her dodgy chemical mix?  Who will bear the friggen fardel of my burnt hair,
Frizzing and breaking under a weary brush,
And then the dread of something after gray,
The undiscover’d country of baldness from which
No hair returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the hair we have
Than to try new colors we know not of?
Thus self-consciousness does make a coward of me;
And thus the native hue of my hair
Is sicklied o’er with a color matching my original,
And now begin this enterprise of great pith and moment
With this in mind the colors are mixed,
And lose the name of gray. – Soft you now!
The hairdresser!, Lady, in thy orisons
Be all my conditioners remember’d. Or no tip.