It’s Ironic

It’s ironic
that you,
who held your head of household position like a prizefighters golden belt,
who held the purse strings and all the 
muscle flexing cards,
are the one lying there.
So still,
so quiet,
for a change.
It’s ironic,
that it was you
who never missed a baseball game,
even if it required all the food money for season tickets,
or 3 TV’s on at once,
and yet I was the one who swung ,
full, fierce and true
and didn’t miss.
Alanis would appreciate this.
It’s like finally learning to breathe underwater
and not drowning any more.
The salt water that stung my eyes for all these long years
has turned fresh,
and receded until
now only a peaceful pond reflects the setting sun.
And it’s ironic
the dread I was assured that this act of defiance,
of certain damnation,
would bring me,
is as cool as a ripe mango and smooth…
smooth and linen fresh as the sheet I rolled you into.
It’s ironic, 
that I am smiling
and that my smile shines like the moon will be soon,
even with the broken spaces,
and the swollen lips.
And I watch you sink quietly with the sun,
and I think
about how it is usually the Prince who rides in and saves the Princess….
but when the Prince is the monster
the Princess must take matters into her own hands
and forge herself a happy ending. 
How ironic….


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Being Thankful


No matter where you are, no matter what you do or do not celebrate – I want you to know I am thankful for you. I am grateful for everyone who stops by my little corner of the Blogverse.  And for a great many other things besides….. 

I wish you enough. Happy Thanksgiving ~



I Wish You Enough – by Bob Perks  

“Recently, I overheard a mother and daughter in their last moments together at the airport as the daughter’s departure had been announced. Standing near the security gate, they hugged and the mother said, “I love you and I wish you enough.”

The daughter replied, “Mom, our life together has been more than enough. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough, too, Mom.” They kissed and the daughter left.

The mother walked over to the window where I sat. Standing there, I could see she wanted and needed to cry.  I tried not to intrude on her privacy but she welcomed me in by asking, “Did you ever say good-bye to someone knowing it would be forever?”

“Yes, I have,” I replied. “Forgive me for asking but why is this a forever good-bye?”

“I am old and she lives so far away. I have challenges ahead and the reality is the next trip back will be for my funeral,” she said.

When you were saying good-bye, I heard you say, “I wish you enough.” May I ask what that means?”

She began to smile. “That’s a wish that has been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to everyone.” She paused a moment and looked up as if trying to remember it in detail and she smiled even more.

“When we said ‘I wish you enough’ we were wanting the other person to have a life filled with just enough good things to sustain them”.  Then turning toward me, she shared the following, reciting it from memory,

“I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.

I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.

I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.

I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much bigger.

I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.

I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.

I wish you enough hello’s to get you through the final good-bye.”

She then began to cry and walked away.  They say it takes a minute to find a special person. An hour to appreciate them.  A day to love them.  And an entire life to forget them.  That moment I shall remember for all eternity.”


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Lady of the Book

With her right hand she opens the book,
turns the pages with deliberation
and unhurried grace.
Her infinite task has no need of urgency,
of frenetic action.
With her left hand she draws a line through the chosen entry.
This lady in her robe of red,
 and with deep eyes of ink on parchment,
of immeasurable skies,
she throws the bones and finds the pattern in the chaos.
Gold plated saints and faces in the trees,
she has observed them all,
their comings and goings,  
merely another passage to note,
merely another page turned.
another line to draw.
She would tell you,
if you asked,
that there are two things everyone wants;
and the selfsame two things everyone fears…
and it would be a gift to be free of the wanting,
of these dark desires,
but like blood and bone they go together.
You watch as her polished hands soundlessly turn the pages once more,
looking at her wrists
the veins threading like a rill,
like the contour lines on a map,
blue as woodsmoke,
blue as the open sky.
And you think of one more question,
one more,
just one more…
But the book has closed.
Your line is drawn,
and another coming and going duly noted.
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I Still Am

In the grey,
in the blank,
 and in the cracks between,
I am.
I still am.
And maybe right now there is no fire in my eyes,
there is no badass in my walk,  
alone on the outside,
and the in – 
there is only me.
You trimmed all the edges and frills away,
welded the will out of me, 
and polished me with your icy looks.
I closed off the doors
raised the walls and buried the tinsel and tiaras I used to decorate myself with,
before I found that joyful wasn’t proper.
And the laughing I did at my own expense to cajole you
stamped the dirt down tight,
smoothing it along with your ego,
until there was only a small mound to show the grave,
where the almost-me lies,
I am.
I still am.
No matter what words of yours I carried like concrete blocks on my shoulders,
so heavy I forgot how to walk looking forward,
how to stand straight.
I viewed the world from an orchestra pit,
while the main player cavorted on stage,
and practiced my apologies for the next scene over and over,
like praying a rosary…
Until there was nothing.
Until there was vapor when I looked in the mirror,
and you finally let go of that last string,
and let me float away…
I am.
I still am.
Despite your laughing admonition that I am nothing,
will stay nothing,
can be nothing,
without you.
Well, keep laughing motherfucker,
because no matter what you threw at me,
what you took,
what you stole,
I am still here.
I still am.
I still am and will be,
because even when you think I’m truly gone,
back into the (star)dust I came from,
my words,
my roots,
my fingerprints I left
pressed on to the glass windows of the world,
will someday stir,
and stretching up in a newborn summer,
I will unfold once again.
The wreckage you left me floating in
will become my foothold.
 Out of the cracks,
draped in tinsel and wearing a grubby tiara
I will dig my way out and throw the shovel away…
standing straight.
I am.
I am.
I still am.
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The Other Side of Midnight

Originally posted on Chimera Poetry:

Meet me on the other side of midnight
the place of song endings.
Hold me up so I can touch the sky, the stars, the moon…
Shall we dance among the wishing wells? 
Dropping so many copper pennies in each one
that the wishes overflow and escape.
Meet me on the other side of midnight
at the corner of Camelot and Oz
and bring some sunflowers to fill the empty vases along the alleyways,
to light the walls as we write the story of our names on them 
with the shadows capering like plumage around our faces
as we sign them with melting wax and kisses.
Meet me on the other side of midnight
to board the atlantean trolley leaving soon.
The seafoam already gathers itself in great and pluming fountains
as a welcoming sign
a signal
as we round the bend, crossing to the other sides 
where midnight is just approaching

View original 21 more words

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For Fear of the Forest




There were those that feared the forest,
feared its mighty upwardness,
its solidness,
its reach up into the valley of stars,
and were jealous of the attention the wind gave.
And they gnawed like tunnel rats on their resentments,
on the bare bones of their grievances,
 until they mushroomed in the dark.
And they came like petty purse snatchers in the night

to cut the trees,

brave only while under shrouded dark cover,  
creeping away like a contemptible mist.

The leaves were shaken and scattered 
and the branches splintered,
 broken open, 
bleeding sap onto the mourning ground,
while the cries rang through the maelstrom’d air,
and the ground trembled with the sound of the stampede,
of the many coming to rescue.
The leaves were gathered
and the roots bound and covered with care.
The forest will never die,
and the pitiless dread that slides in disguised as righteous,
should never be confused with right.
Terror is a tool in the clumsy hand of a coward,
and those tools have a way of slipping and biting…
The roots that spread like veins underground can wait
until the time to grow again.
No burning,
no slashing,
no puny prick of a delusional insect
 biting with crabbed and craven intent
at the feet of the giant
can topple it.
Stand tall,
 stand together ,
and reach again toward the valley of the stars,
the city of light.
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Shall We Dance?

Shall we dance
you and I?
In this marketplace
this dance floor of the repetitive,
cheap wine and thin conversation,
firmly draped in a gaudy bright coat and hung with thin tinfoil medals of cleverness.
They will tarnish quickly
and clutch crookedly
 crumpled on the lapel,
but this one nights sheen is all that’s needed.
Shall we dance
you and I?
In desperation,
and mutual blind eye turning,
and ignore the monsters in the closet together.
We sometimes sit forever in the eye of the hurricane
because the storms frighten us
and we know how to stay still,
we know how to get lost,
and pride alone is never enough to keep us warm. 
Shall we dance
you and I?
Until the sinking feeling of the rising sun,
when the cheap wine stains can be seen clearly
 with the rusted safety pins marks on a shabby coat
pinned on with such conscious avoidance.
Need has left on it’s own walk of shame,
and over wide smiles and glassy sharp quips
are all that lingers
to hold this mornings tatters in place.
Until the next evening…
when the dance floor throws its doors wide open,
and the tinny jukebox whines its invitation out into the lonely streets,
and once again,
we look for a partner to hold hands with,
 however briefly,
to stay the closet handle from turning.
Shall we?
Shall we dance?


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