Caress
Caress me closer.
Too your love.
Where your love.
Is flow so gentle.
Into my soul
Drunk on the street
Dark streets and familiar walks home, I know my steps too well.
The curb I tripped and grabbed your arm, the quiet spot behind the trees.
The path I ran toward your tears.
The home I new and left behind still jumps into my gait.
I turn to stumble into arms that folded now won’t let me in.
You were here with me.
You loved my heavy steps.
Cobble streets or train stop hills, I know these steps too well.
When the shadows reach to grab, ending every day,
I think of night-time running home away from all the pain.
Will I Survive?
My feet carried me to a forked road
Within the dark prison of forest
I must be safe, I must crack the code
I must not travel when I forebode
I need to find a safe place to rest
Both roads had suffered the sting of age
And time had worn them about the same
But one road had clear signs of human rage,
As I could read death like a page
Of a book, a talent I can claim
My two options laid there before me
One lay dark without human trace
The other painted screams of the banshee
Paranoia, what will my fate be?
Do I go deeper, or risk the chase?
I survived to tell you of this tale
As my mind used logic to say
To step into the darkness, exhale
When given the chance to bail,
You can take it, and live the next day
Hour 17–Wall Clock
Dad had a schedule
every Wednesday
every Sunday he wound the old clock
They’d had it since the 60’s
They had requested it when the old church in Pittsburgh was torn down.
It was retrieved from the hall where a youthful Mom and Dad had lingered in the late thirties. A kid had scratched into the brass pendulum initials and a date.
As a young man I’d done surgery on it when it stopped ticking. Unsolicited. Guessing at its workings I got the gears unstuck
I don’t know how
It just happened.
It was the heartbeat of our home, then their new home at Penney Retirement Community.
It hung in the living room. I could hear it ticking on the other side of my wall, marking the last days of Mom, the last months of Dad.
Then the deepest silence descended on that house. The clock confirmed they were gone. It’s the one thing of theirs I wanted. I got it.
I wind it. I’m not regimented like Dad.
I’m bad.
I don’t know Wednesday from Sunday.
Ode to Marathon, #8
As I sit pondering
I wonder of my choice
The house quiet
All I hear is my voice
While all are asleep
I am speaking in rhyme
Although I make no peep
My voice is clear
These poems of mine
Fear’s a running theme
Time and time
I don’t know why
Not before the cat
Nine years and five days ago
a glorious gift from two great parents
brought digital music to my world
with an ipod- best ever birthday present.
A true marvel of the modern day.
More sounds than I thought I’d have ever.
Portable, versatile, user friendly,
robust and sturdy- could last forever!
I love using playlists, for tasks and moods,
creating and shaping them from day one,
for playing darts or preparing food,
focused for writing or dancing for fun.
The ipod is my most valued possession,
in crisis the first to which I would go,
if in the house a fire was raging,
after I’d thrown the cat out the window.
Night Nurse
The cows are lowing tonight
in the field below our
small, white house.
It reminds me of my babies,
many years ago, in their
small, white crib.
I would sit with them,
lowing, and rocking, and
giving milk to their thirsty lips.
We sustained each other
in our small, white house.
Lessons Never Learned
I am too tired to make a poem now.
It’s late, and Hobbits grace my flatted tube.
My stomach hurts from eating way too much,
But I get bored without a bit to taste.
Unorganized, my house, it’s such a mess.
Too many jobs. Too much creative love.
I think too much that I should have a love.
But it’s too late to love this woman now.
My womb is spent, my life a dismal mess.
I brush my teeth, forget to cap the tube.
The counter top has now the minty taste,
But clean it up might take a time too much.
At least I’m not depressed and sullen much.
Who knows! Some man I know might learn to love
This gilded aging dame’s eclectic taste.
Oh, I want one. I just don’t want him now;
For I no longer fit the model’s tube
With bulging gut, a broken flabby mess.
I’ll ne’er find passion’s heart, mine’s such a mess.
This world’s too dark, expecting far too much
Of minds deceived with propaganda’s tube.
We’re taught of lust, too rarely learn of love.
That instant rush, we always want it now!
To kiss too quick, forget to stop to taste.
Too few years left, no freedom here to taste
Democracy is just a fascist mess
And even though the world is waking now
Too few have taken oh so very much
They say we’re free, and sometimes speak of love
To us who sell our lives out to a tube
We are all gone! Our minds a flattened tube
No morals left. Just hate. A bitter taste.
A memory, a thought, the myth of love
Just shrouds what’s real – the whole disgusting mess!
The politicians that we trust too much
Are in it for themselves. We see it now.
And as I watch the tube, the fiery mess,
I realize I taste the fat too much
When I should know that love is always now.
Album
pages stuffed with old photos
of those who entered and left my life
painful and beautiful memories
of years past, and happy times
pictures of smiling faces
images of those who came before
some sitting, and some standing
with their feet flat on the floor
if the day came to pass,
and I had to flee
I would take my most prized possession
and keep it
always with me…
By: KMH 2015
Fading beauty
Fading beauty
Sleeping beauty,creepy and cold dead.
Bugs eating flesh, swirling,swarming flies,nibbling,
Feasting on decaying carcass, worms munching,
Fading beauty disappeared,inside a cold and dark casket.
From ashes to dust.