Throne

My throne near the top of the willow tree

where I could oversee

my kingdom that resounded

with mournful train chords

and springtime robin red-breast

Thin the veil between worlds

Of retrospection cursed not blessed

It’s like a perpetual bloodstain

With solidly placed blame

Thats removed quietly with disdain

Where “It’s just how they are” to

Invisibility of me to an entire crew.

But I’ll not allow their foolishness

Not in my kingdom where I am best

Where I’m more than bone deep

Better than the company they sheep.

Missed

I missed your birthday a couple of years back.

I was locked up, sorry about that.

See I got to running with a rougher crowd

They drank too much and partied too loud.

I knew they were bad, but it was so much fun

I knew my world was about to come undone.

I left you with your Grandma Jones

She took you in and gave you a home.

I couldn’t destroy myself while keeping you

I mourned your loss, but got your name tattooed

on my forearm where I see it every day.

I missed you but I had to stay away.

I hope someday you might miss me as well

while I sit here 5-10 in a 4 by 6 cell

I’m sorry I missed your birthday a couple months back

But I was locked up, sorry about that.

 

This is an imagining of why someone might leave their child behind for the sake of self-destruction. This is not based on fact or any person I’ve known living or dead.

Cycle turns

flowergarden

I am an untended garden, riddled with forget-me-nots and weeds

My earth has not been furrowed asunder; tilling life to the topsoil

I have grown fallow, un-supporting of life, but yet, there are some

perennials that cling to a hope of return, of vibrancy dallying

But I can only roll over in my floral nightgown, whimpering in my bed

allowing the blistering son to scorch my once glorious stance

I admit, I’ve become self-watering. I needn’t wait for the gardener

My groans of grief roil the soil, creating bitter roots exposed as lies

Everyone knows that when the earth laughs, people die.

She accepts their bodies back to her world, but I could still breathe

so I am not granted respite from the overabundant fertilizer spewed

over my once lush landscape. But, I will rise, for the weeds can’t hang on

when I forbid grasping of my rooted passion for life. Here she comes

the one that removes the rot with compassionate hands.

Here he comes, the one that scratches that spot in the very middle

She tends to me while singing lightly a childhood song forgotten

He digs deep with his grip, releasing the tainted, blighted plants

She opens the earth to expose me to the warmth of attention

He plants perennial seeds to grow through the coming seasons.

I inhale deeply, knowing that my rebirth will again grow fruitful.

My cycle continues in ample countenance to their loving attention.

I await my own fruition. I will grant only the very best of myself

to create the most beautiful garden I can create. This, is why I weep.

Aleppo, Syria

Omran Daqneesh
There is a little child in Aleppo born
Exploding waves of violent storm
Raging fires silently call harm
Yet the tiny child raises no alarm.
Ali Daqneesh
This is our child. Our daughter or our son
Our children have now become only one
Innocence bombed in a dawn of mourning
We heard the cries, refused the warnings.
Now we witness our barren crops dead
Help them! Somebody!
We are not what we said.

Queen in Passing

grave

Solemnity spoke

The night I prayed would never come

has whispered hallowed night

a reclamation of eternal earth

the kiss of chilled winds blight

The hands I loved have now succumbed

The fiery pyre take flesh from sight

a resolution to embrace rebirth

your angelic spirit take flight

Release

I hope he never knows the pain he’s gifted me.
I pray that his life turns out better than any of my prayers could be.
My fervent wish from my bended knee
Is that his eyes be opened enough for him to recognize and see.
I hope he never understands an abused and neglected heart
I pray that his life is filled with every color of every art.
My fervent wish although we’re apart
Is that his grays fill in with rainbow light and from darkness he depart.

Falling of the Son

There is no tree bedecked with lights

to push away the coldest nights

There is no ornament in your name to hang

There are no bells, their music to clang

There will be no feast to honor the sun

There will be no hours of festive fun

There will be dust and ashes upon my hearth

With saddened heart absent, a disguise worn of mirth

As the tears refrain down memory lane

with whispers of the joy that remains

etched on the holiday with stains of your haint

re-purposing, recycling you into glorious saint.

I’ll stare out the window to witness the world sing

As I dread your fair haunting that this season brings.