The Heels of Winter

Death come knockin’
Cold
On the heels of winter’s hangin’ on
Too long a comin’ she cried
He agreed at last
Goodbye’s long final act
Save soul’s last gasp
A faintest wisp of what was life
Entwined with Reaper’s chilly fog

Death come knockin’
Slow
On the heels of winter’s hangin’ on
Too long a comin’ she collapsed
Ugly questions come hard answered
How to cry for what was or wasn’t
Or for a tomorrow
In need of comfort –

Death come knockin’
Done
On the heels of winter’s hangin’ on
Too long a comin’ she cried
Tears, confusion, backed up dreams
Flooded screams her
Next cold winter’s morn
What they were or hadn’t been
Wouldn’t be, nor matter

Death come knockin’
Cold
Slow
Done
On the heels of winter’s hangin’on
Too long a comin’ she sighed
We never can imagine
What the dream
Should look like
Now

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Someone

Someone broke my heart today
Again
Thought I was past all that by now
All at once I was young again
If only for a while
In a song where snowflakes turn to rain
Pictures of my foolish innocence
Scattered all to hell
Bits of a treasured ornament that fell
So very long ago
Somehow pieced together
Hanging where it belongs
Shame and regret and all the things
We never got to say
Back among the lights and tinsel and memories
That never fade away
Thank God someone broke my heart again today

WordPress and the Poetry Tag

I
Wonder
oft
what Byron and the Bard
Wordsworth, Longfellow, Chaucer,
Emily and Christina,
Sylvia too. Ezra, Geoffrey, Burns,
and both the Brownings.
Oscar, Goethe, Dante
and anyone named Dylan,
Maya Angelou
Langston, Hayes, Yusef,
Alfred the Lord,
Percy, Frost, Coleridge.
Blake or Keats, Sandburg,
Cummings, Eliot,
Ginsburg, Burroughs and all the beats. Neruda, Rumi,
Mary, Henry David, Ralph Waldo, Maria, Heather,
Louise, Edna, Marianne and Edgar with their rules
and metered effortless rhyme would think of Internet “poetry”
most no more than decent prose cut up, stacked like a heart or
A staircase, a candlestick or an expensive layered cupcake?
Or worse! Beauty lost in arrogant, erudite obfuscation trailing
obsequiousness like a kite’s tail in a vacuum. Pain is understood
As are the pentatonic canons of Aristotle so here’s a picture of a subway
in France where I was bummed and a dirty old man playing saxophone stared at my tears click on the social icons tell me how you liked me I’ll be your BFFF if you’ll just buy my damn lip gloss which is all my way to say why I don’t write much poetry and stick to
fiction
Because it’s a damn site easier than making ascii art out of prose

Apologies to all the internet poets and word slingers who take themselves and their word art too seriously.

DID I SAY SERIOUS! YES! A SERIOUSLY WEIRD MURDER, MAYHEM AND CHAOS COLLAB IS GOING ON AT:The Art of Drowning

Hosted Courtesy of The Perilous Reading Society and Ash N. Finn

Take a step outside and check them out

 

Vinyl Wallet

I am constantly being reminded here in the blogosphere that it is Mental Health Month. I found the first part of this, originally written in 1976. Yes, it’s sophomoric. I added the last bit today. Help people if you can. Early. Or someone buries them. Early.

A boy married young
Rebelled against the norm
In his desire to be different
He kicked up quite a shit storm
Her parents were wealthy
Considered him beneath their station
They honeymooned in Hawaii
He was supposed to find work but
They got high and it was simply an extended vacation

They sold clothes and pianos, waited tables, built houses
Those were a bomb
They pulled an acre of thorny grapevine down
Burned it for her Mom
Her Mother paid to keep them eating,
Sheltered and alive
They laughed and partied
Spent mom’s money
Ignored her father’s sermons and jive

That first Christmas
Her parents gave him
A vinyl wallet
Gramma and the sisters, old Aunt Helen
They all laughed, agreed
Said out loud that was all he’d ever need
That was the last Holiday
He’d drop spaghetti on their oriental rug
Mom made sure they were done
With no more than a shrug

He was forty minutes North
Forty years away
When he learned their daughter blew her brains out
Livin’ in a postcard just south of L.A.
Didn’t matter who it was
Or what theirs was made of
Did it
Come end of that day

R.I.P. Deborah Eloise Kendall-Juette
10.12.1953 – 5.4.2004
Too many senseless decisions are made with alcohol and a hand gun. Do your best to keep them away from people looking for the wrong answer.

Them’s Some Fine Lookin’ Shoes

That Woman there
Got her
Some
Fine lookin’ shoes
Strutted through
Momma Rue’s
Stepped out of one
Fool’s
Heartbreak
Right into another dude’s
Blues
Curious how
Every woman in the
Room
Crazy for
Her shoes

Wished they’d found
Some
On sale
On line
Even if they hurt
‘Cause all that
Heartbreak
Yesterday’s men all
Ashes and
Dust
In the wind
They all knew
Girl had it goin’
On

Not too gimmicky
Not a real
Bitch
Knew what she wanted
Rich
Would do nicely
Loved you for
Dinner
A movie
A weekend
Maybe two but
Slummin’
Forever
Won’t never
Do
Every woman in
Town
Crazy
For Her shoes

Get over it
Brother
Can’t you see
Move
Or move on
Girl’s got it
All
Goin’ on

When she’d shuffled
Enough Fools
One offered
Fingers full of
Jewels
More to come
But
Here’s
The new rules
Listen
Up
Man said

This many
Pretty children
Where I go is
Where
You stay and
What I think is
What you
Say
Keep it that
Way
Country Club Hostess
Mama
Maybe even a
little whore
Time to time
Be fine
On call
Night or day
Whatta ya say

Still
Every damn woman
In the
County
Crazy for
Her shoes

Miss somethin’
Darlin’
Someone
Little people
Little minds
Gotta get over it
Darlin’
Ain’t no
Easy way
Out

Get over it
Move
Or move on
Girl don’t you
Know
No?
Hey
You got it
All
Goin’ on

Wasn’t never too gimmicky
Managed to find
Bitch
And rich
Oh Yes
Indeed
She never stepped
Out of
Her own heart
Locked up
But
Never broken
Blues
Maybe a little
If so she
Sung them
Quietly to
No one

Get over it
Sister
Move
Or move on
Girl you got
All of
Too much
of everything
Goin’ on

Can you
Fathom
Imagine
Believe
That still
Most every
Damn woman
Most every
Damn where
Still
Crazy for
Her shoes

A Short Prayer

For a short Old Friend

She’s old enough to
Have heard her babies cry
Heard her Mother cry, now
She’s forced to watch
The man who’s been beside
Her
Die
For whoever answers prayers today
Listen…

Show her someplace quiet
Sunny and cool
Where the grass is
Green and
Soft
Sit with her on the bank of the
Magic stream
So wide, so
Slow
Where the water
Is clear and
Clean
Let her be ankle deep for awhile
In all of what is
Everything

Let the very best of their
Yesterdays
Fold her gently in their arms
Take a moment
Show her a tomorrow
Real and bright
Hold her through the night
Give her something to
Believe
Show her a glimpse of what is
Everything
Help her while she grieves

Dry her tears
Calm her fears
Show her how a love
That lasted a lifetime
Means more than pictures
On a wall
Show her what she needs to see
Listen if she calls
Show her what she’s made of
How who and where she’s been
Is still that girl
She thought she
Was
So strong, so
Long ago

Show her someplace quiet
Hold her heart inside your hand
Keep it still and
Calm
Wrap her in
Compassion
Give her dreams that are
Sweet
When she needs
Relief
As she’s forced to watch
The man who’s been beside
Her
Die

I won’t ask for easy
I know it doesn’t work that way
From whoever answers prayers today
I ask only for some simple Grace and
A touch of Mercy
For an old friend

Painting: “Norham Castle, Sunrise” by JMW Turner, The Tate, London

Small Words, Small Thoughts

Petits Mots, Petites Idées…
[petit poème de ~la femme qui brûle~ par Sha’Tara]

L’étoile du matin
S’éteint
Je regarde mes biens:
De ce qui tient
Je n’ai besoin de rien.
Tout va bien.

————————————

Small words, Small Thoughts
[from ~burning woman~ by Sha’Tara]

The morning star
Is extinguished
I scan my possessions:
Of what clings,
I need none.
All is well.

Re-blogged from ~burning woman~

https://shatara46.wordpress.com/2016/11/16/petits-mots-petites-idees/