Favorite Hat
I pull on my favorite hat
And the world rights itself
The soft yarn encloses me
The holes keeping me from getting too hot
Loosely wrapped
And comfortable
Security returns to me
It’s Whatever.
Eyes burn when closed.
It’s harder to focus them.
My hands are clumsy.
My mind even more so.
Names are the hardest to get.
Full sentences nearly impossible.
Everything is either funny or angry.
Music is the only salvation.
The 12th hour a poem dedicated to Luna…and the Man in the Moon
The 12th hour a poem dedicated to Luna…and the Man in the Moon
Moon high in the sky looking down on us.
I see the face of a boy child in 3-D, just my brother and me.
It’s hard to determine his nationality.
He has a tapered haircut and a friendly face.
I first saw him many moons ago, his expression reflected on a computer screen under the protective canopy of the Great Lakes and the state it nestles in-between.
If you turn your head just so, you will see another little person, a little girl that my boyfriend says matter-of-factly looks just like me… a little Shirley Temple in the sky.
The glory and pride I feel inside was discovering this feat with my brother who is like no other.
We spare no time to uncover the mysteries of the sky when we can.
We almost fell asleep laughing into the wee hours of the night, yet for the record please let it stand he does not allow me to fall asleep in his room.
I’ve grown too old for this I know, but I still try to stay up, just to get a few more laughs in before it’s gets too late.
Until the next visit, at least we know, we all share the same moon from down below.
TRAILER LIFE
back home again,
at the trailer,
and it seems that I can see –
the gleaming street light,
still shining bright,
by the curb for me,
the fresh cut grass,
sends out it’s fragrance,
on the streets I used to roam,
when I think about the
street light on the corner,
then I long for my Aluminum Home.
Michellia D. Wilson 8/16/2016
Heart #15
Beating and pounding, keeping me alive,
Without realization of how it helps me survive,
Taking my old blood , and making it nice and new,
It is quite amazing , of what a heart can do.
Pumping my blood, through my veins for me,
Speeds up fast, when I’m nervous you see,
My heart hurts , when someone hurts me so,
It often gives me signs, for things I need to know.
We often take for granted what our bodies can truly do,
How fast it heals after all we put it through,
Whether it is a running marathon, and get body aches,
Or a poetry marathon, and giving it all it takes.
Our heart keeps on beating, when our mind wants to quit,
It works super hard, as we work hard to get fit,
Every day our heart pumps gallons of blood, for us to live,
A awesome factor we some times forget, our heart credit we should give.
Amusement Park Girlfriend
She often costs more than she’s worth
Yet other times the greatest show on earth
She rides me constantly when I do wrong
Then plays up to me like a carnival song
You never know where her mood will swing
She’ll close up shop and say it’s time to leave
Other times she likes to clown around
With the biggest of smiles that lights up the town
I love her so I must confess
Though I never know what’s coming next
She has certainly been a roller coaster ride
A house of mirrors with no one more confused than I
Keeps me laughing and guessing wherever we are
My girlfriend the amusement park
SIXTEEN
Poem SIXTEEN has been removed and now appears on chocolate is a verb, 31 August 2016.
So they say
All day
Watching cars pass.
You could venture out there
But there’s nothing left for you, so
They say
Darkness of Hell
My body was numb from the darkness that capture my body.
The pain was so bad it couldn’t only come from the flame.
Of hell that was upon my body.
My soul wanted to scream the word’s couldn’t come out.
Their were just silent word’s that my soul had.
Their wasn’t no word’s that came from my soul.
Their was just tear’s of fear of the flame of hell.
That capture my body in the darkness of hell.
Heart of Hearts
My father’s heart fell victim to heredity four years ago.
The surgeon placed a stent in his aortic valve to brace
the walls and keep the blood flowing.
I imagine the stent shaped like a bridge to strings,
like the one that bolsters the cello
in the corner of my room collecting dust.
But even before that, he couldn’t pass the physical
to join the Korean War–his heart murmured
something the doctors did not like.
My father’s father died of a heart attack, or
maybe complications of diabetes that betrayed his heart.
He was a musician and a piano tuner,
who sometimes imposed a cello lesson on me,
firmly pressing my fingers to the finger board
nearly 45 years ago on that corner resting cello.
All of his 8 sons played musical instruments.
The 21 year old I work with at the sweet shop,
whose name may be Rob or Mike or John,
is someone I would say has a heart of gold,
but for his laziness, though still an amiable sort.
He has a pair of friends, twin brothers, who
come to pick him up from work and take him home.
One told me that Rob-Mike-John had five heart attacks
when he was only a sophomore in high school.
His doctor said he was lucky to be alive.
My mother’s heart is strong, always has been.
Her mind and body are ravaged by demented
disease, forgetting to allow her to live, but her
heart beats resoundingly under her ribs, her doctor says.
And though the cuffs don’t hurt her any more,
too little flesh on her arms, her blood pressure rocks.
Sans word, thought or flesh, she is pure pulsing heart now.