Finally
Coffee in hand.
Ahhhh, big sigh of relief…
This is my master remedy.
It all begins..
Peace is what everyone wants
Silence is something which still haunts
People are together but wander apart
Some stay far and still in heart
All one wants is a kind of love
which makes them feel like a dove
A promise that remains unspoken
Fills the gaps in ties unbroken
Whenever we think everything ends
Thats when it all begins…
Airway Getaway
Choked up on broken tears,
Making empty promises on half-hidden smiles,
Waiting for my departure.
I didn’t have enough words for “a while,”
Not prepared for heartfelt goodbyes,
Trying not to appear through my crocodile disguise,
“Promise me you’ll work with me when you get back…”
“You’re probably gonna leave me and not come back.”
The boldness of your bride-to-be at dinner the night fall before,
Making her snide remarks,
Beyond her usual, obsequious metaphor,
“Are you really coming back?”
“Do you like girls? If so, it’s okay…”
Leaving her with no inclination of what’s what,
Or what’s real:
Bride farewell,
“I’m coming back. I’m here to stay.”
He tugs at my heartstrings,
Curling them between his grasp,
Wrenching me with fear,
Poisoning my ability to laugh.
The tightening grows,
As I flutter for a seemingly, meaningless good-bye,
Dying to be out of this moment,
Out of his stare,
Away from his eyes,
His line of sight.
Turning my back,
Hoping to never look back,
Walking the runway,
Ready to runaway.
As the coal in my throat grows,
The crystallized waterfalls begin to overflow,
This diamond starts to slit my throat,
As I look for one last glance,
He wilts away like a rose.
It seems good-byes are all we know,
Farewell to the Daddy’s Girl we both used to know.
Blank Pages
The blank pages of a journal
Are waiting for thoughts to flow;
I have several, one for each family member
So someday they will all know.
How my heart loves them,
How I know I am truly blessed;
Even with misunderstandings
There is a reason behind every test.
The blank pages of a scrapbook
Are ready for memories to unfold;
So many moments filled with pride
In these pages I will share the joy.
Sports, graduation, college, serving our country
Little ones growing up too soon;
Now I keep those memories close by
My three children and husband, I love you!
The blank pages of a notebook
Where poems and stories start;
Okay, that’s not always true…
Many come from the heart.
An Oscar Moment in Time
Is not always a trophy or an award;
It’s family or a friend
Asking the writer for one more.
Scotch I would prefer
“The page opens to snow on a field: boot-holed month, black hour
the bottle in your coat half vodka half winter light.
To what and to whom does one say yes?” – Caryolyn Forche
Up the dale the wind from the loch,
Finds the stubborn and stoic Scot.
He does not flinch nor does he complain,
E’en on the threat of snowy rain.
The roiling clouds, on pallet gray,
Suggest it is a winter day.
“Nae, ’tis summer and I am stoned,”
“But not b’whisky,” he peevishly bemoaned.
And setting forth, in imaginary ice,
He sought sweet refuge in Highland gneiss.
I Will Give You Everything
The Universe is teasing me
With the temptation of music.
She knows I have to gather my things,
And yet she finds it amusing
To distract me with her gifts.
“See?” she says.
“I will give you everything, my dearest one.”
Lack of Love
Hour 3 – 8:00 AM
If love was your friend, then where did he go.
I’ve loved many, but they too got old.
Your impressive with that hair.
That smile.
But you let me down every time I see you howl.
Your growl is mean, and your bite is harsh.
Your unintriguing to say the least.
But I’ll let the lack of love lay you to rest in peace.
– J.C. ©
A New Galaxy
Climb on board
Let’s take a trip
Higher, higher
Rising up.
In between,
Above, below
And all around
We fly.
A new galaxy.
“Second Coming”
A child’s fingers tying canvas shoelaces.
Tentative steps out the door,
Burdened with books,
Fraught with anxiety,
Answering uncertainly.
A soldier’s fingers tying bootlaces.
The smell of polish before morning parade.
In the service of the nation,
Orders are barked, and followed.
With resentment, not pride.
An adult’s fingers tying Doc Martens.
The frantic push through carriage doors,
“Mind the gap!” is exhorted.
Papers shuffled, phones answered.
Mondays hated, Fridays awaited.
A father’s fingers tying his child’s laces.
The morning commute crawls along.
Stress builds, tempers fray.
Model nuclear family?
It’s a myth.
The mortician’s fingers now tie his laces.
Mournful faces file past,
The resplendence of his Sunday best,
The endless slumber in oak pine cedar.
It comes full circle.