Signs of the Father

My Father used to say, peace be with you…

But it never was.

Holding a stark bare cross above the bedroom door…

I had been taught ‘this is love.’

Father would shake my hand until life caught hold

Eventually, in obsession, he became less bold.

My Father had sent me to deviant schools.

I had been taught of prejudice, good books, how to look for fools.

Laugh Over Tears

Valerie Harper passed the other day. Yup! Two bouts with cancer. Ten years later…she was with us. Until a few days ago.

Cancer kills! I get that but…comedy, laughter and giggles…heal.

I had a ‘friend’ ask,

‘Why so upset over Valerie Harper? She was 80 after all!’

Why so upset?

I grew up in a home filled with hate, bigotry, judgment and punishment. That is just what it is! However, out of one of the two television stations worth damn; on Saturday afternoons, I watched comedy.

This world we live in, particularly in these horrible times, I would rather laugh then cry. Valerie Harper’s death was not unexpected…the depth and death of her comedy? Missed by those of us that needed a little more…funny in our lives.

Bullet and Flower

So, I am impolite

I am polite.

As father was with, an open clenched kitten’s paw.

Honed to strength of aged claw.

OUR only diagnosis a home where the fishy scales dry…warm and raw

Both my father and I…a seamstress, a tailor with a dull needle. 

Tethered together…venomous spelunkers in a  dry well.

Scratched in tongues so wide and red. 

OUR bloodline canvasses a coyote grey and turquoise blue. aligned to the crimson lies we tell….

From outside a generation’s thought tanned knuckles, rosebud cheek, thorny wishes down a wishing well.

From outside a generation’s thought, I lay in a casket made of crib ribbons and no pillow for my head.

And, my mother’s resourcefulness vows to lay with the dead.

Mother Melancholia

Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome

(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)

Generation Catacomb!

WE utter tumors of blood.

For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains

It was there I had seen him first.  An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.

 

Than…

Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold.  Obliging, as a casserole.  She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.

Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.

Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.

Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.

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I protest to this embankment,

The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!

No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed.  No matter the vials for your smiles.  A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon.  Crimson waters will punish your passageway.

..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.

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a Bridge too Close

He knew of the nature of seed.

He knew not of the nature of others.

The pining echoes.

Traversing nearby hollows.

Winter berries that please.

Winter berries which impede.

He understood rugged instinct.

What a world to master as a, young man?

Cold thick waters…

a laundry

or

a bath?

He learned to feed the fire.

While…

He accepted little of fire’s desire.