….why paisley???

it is there, and then it’s not
the brewing winds of change
feel as if they
are sure to blow
and then they go away

churning,, swirling,,
convoluted,,
blended, mixed, and strained
leaving twisted,, tousled me
aloft,, adrift,, un-chained

no farther forward
not tossed aback
but strangely, not where i began
tell me all this is not some part
of an evil twisted plan…..

photo:

http://georgeharrison.deviantart.com/art/Wind-22131341

i see them there sometimes
lying lifeless
discarded and disowned
tossed nonchalantly
along the rough shod berm
just there
at the edge of the road..

and every time i do
i think about
the white florida sweatshirt,
that found its way into my path
one cold windy morning
as waited to cross
the bridge on atlantic blvd
that winter i worked at diana’s..

and the gold silk midriff top
with the garishly large golden buttons
that i found in the bathroom
of the agora ballroom,
that summer my little sister
married the ski instructor
that she met in denver..

or the metallica tee shirt,
that had “me” written all over it-
way back when i was
blessed with naturally flat abs
and a penchant for wearing rosaries
and way too many cheap bangle bracelets…

and it always makes me wonder
if maybe it never really was,
out of need
that i rescued
those lonely abandoned pieces
of someone else’s life..

maybe, just maybe
it was because
i was hoping that someday
someone would happen upon
and rescue,, all the little lost
pieces of me,,
in much the same way…

photo:

http://loudchris.deviantart.com/art/Shelled-13007541

Telephone. by ~Oro91 on deviantART

i wanna call an old friend
from my childhood
talk about kickball and boys.
i wanna make fun
of somebody’s mother,, ride our bikes
and smoke butts-
at least till the ice cream man comes..

i wanna call an old friend
from my adolescence
buy a cheap bag of weed
and a bong.
talk about frenching, while coughing
my ass off,
then pass out all fucked up, in the sun..

i wanna call an old friend
from my 20’s
buy a case of cold bud
and some rock.
bitch about guys we shouldn’t love-
but can’t leave,
’cause damn it,, the sex is too hot..

i wanna call an old friend
from my 30’s
tell them “i’m off all that shit,
man, i’m clean..”
but i can’t, because i can not find them,
they’re all dead, or in jail,,
or worse- clean like me..

in her write on wednesday prompt, becca suggested that we write about those things from which we draw inspiration.. i listed mine… and this is what became of that list……

i feel at home in the company, of long abandoned, buildings..
i find my voice in graffiti, sprayed in angst, on broken walls..
my spirit climbs the ancient trunks, of tangled, gnarled, trees.
and i see god, in granite angels, as they kneel on hallowed ground..

i feel secure in rooms ensconced, with somber, sultry, virgin icons..
i find passion, in the gentle touch, of hard, coarse, calloused hands..
my heart resides in old black and white visions, caught on ageless celluloid.
and i see forever, in the words, that these simple things have inspired….

photo:

http://anomalie-vert.deviantart.com/art/Inspiration-30781512

Window Watcher by ~Jheiracks on deviantART

thin and frail she
lurks just,,
outside my window..
from the shadows
she implores,,
“please,, let me in..”

she begs me,,
eyes wide,
just like a child’s..
she looks so fragile,
so innocent,
alone, out there..
she taps lightly,
on the pane
and she whispers,,
“i still love you…
let me in,,
i’ll be your friend…”

thin and frail
she lurks just,,
outside my window..
it should be, so easy,,
to just open it,
and let her in..

but instead,
i draw the blind
so i can’t see her..
i write a poem,
i paint with words,
and i pretend..
that the scared,
little child-
just outside
my window,,,
is not me-
i don’t long,,
to let her in…..

photo courtesy of easystreet prompts

daddy says we was a goin’
to the land a milk and honey
but when we got there it
were dry and brown
and folks said we talk funny..
there weren’t no jobs-
very little milk
and we ain’t never seen no honey.
cal-i-for-ni-a
weren’t a very friendly place
for folks that had no money..

they took to callin’ us “oakies”
as if it were somethin’ bad to be.
as if for some kinda reason
i should be ashamed, to just be me.
weren’t none of them folks born there,
so i never did understand
what made them feel
like they was better ‘an me
’cause i was born on oklahoma land..

no sir,, cal-i-for-ni-a
weren’t what it was cracked up to be.
so lord, if thats where your serving milk and honey,,
don’t set no place for me…

in 1977, in north olmsted, ohio,, a 17 year old girl, named yvonne reagler, went to work at a local gas station/convenience store on a sunny summer afternoon,,, and just disappeared.. the money was still in the till.. she left her purse behind.. there was no sign of foul play…

like a wisp of smoke
trailing from the wick
of an outed candle,,
she disappeared silently..
slipped, from the light
into the dark..
the scent
of the burning wax
remained in the air
(an acceptable amount of time
as we tucked ourselves away
safely in our soft suburban beds..)
and then, like she-
was gone,, without a trace…

yet,,
sometimes when i breath
the tender curl
of her waxen smoke
reappears
as if from nowhere..
it will fill the air,
then just as quickly-
once again,, be gone..
a gentle reminder
of an ordinary girl
on an ordinary day
in an ordinary place
on extraordinary journey..
long since removed
but never quite forgotten….

photo:
http://fc08.deviantart.com/fs5/i/2004/350/7/e/whisp_by_triksy.jpg

this memory was brought back to me when i read lissa’s post today,, a story entitled, Hot Day…

the honey moon
is peering at me
thru the window.
she is looking at me
intently
with both her eyes.
one is bright and real,
and i have to share it.
the other lags behind-
shes just mine.
it is the middle of the night,
everyone is sleeping.
‘cept me, myself,
the honey moon,
her shadow
and i…
she is ringing in the solstice-
her sister sun’s
last big hurrah..
and i am ringing in
the perfection
of the night….

the world is quite a place
when no one is in it.
no oil prices,
no warming trends,
no shattered lives..
when it is just me
all alone,
with the voices
in my head,
and the honey moon
hovering silently
at my side..
being alone,, for some reason
feels so different.
as i inhale
the somber silence
just past midnight.
what a glorious
place to be alone,,
but never lonely.
just me, myself,
the honey moon,
her shadow
and i…

photo:

http://blue-peony.deviantart.com/art/Shadow-of-the-Moon-77799694

our lady of perpetual sorrow
is sponsoring,
an ice cream social..
worker bees,
dressed in stiffly
starched,, yet ancient
thread bare
light pink smocks,,
members of
the womens axillary
(better known as
the old ladies
of the rosary club)
over see
the days events.
tongues drawn to gossip
like tacky fly paper
which spreads like fire,
alarmingly punctuated
by self righteous “humphs”
veiled ever so lightly in
the sign of the cross..

whilst their husbands,
who were left at home
in day old boxer shorts,
channel surf past
honey do lists
ceremoniously avoiding
mop and broom,
by entertaining visions
of dusky women
in dank motel rooms,
over long cold
cups of coffee,
traded in for beer
well before noon..
till the dryer sounds
(oh,, beeper from hell!!)
and reality sets in…

photo:
http://cherubb.deviantart.com/art/watching-TV-63336128

“something inside me is energy,, and it was not created,, so it cannot be destroyed….” from the girls by lori lansens

we stood in front
of my childhood closet
fighting about
the course that i was on
she was positive i would
never make it
into the kingdom of her god
and to tell you the truth
to this day,,
i am ever thankful
i will not..

“i will never die!!”
i remember yelling at her,,
knowing full well
that my physical body
would someday expire..
but i knew then
with the clarity
of an epiphany,
that the force
that i called “i”
would never die,,
but just move on..

to date,,
i have received
no further revelation.
no moments of insight,
no visions in the night..
yet, each time, that i recall
that single apparition
of teenage clarity,,
it rings with a truth
i have never found
in any god…

photo:

http://shadyxxlurker.deviantart.com/art/Closet-of-Black-77537103