the Thunder

thunder comes up over the hollow and lays down in the street

circles my yard and peaks at my feet

I try to wake my loved one to make her aware

then I realize that beside me she lays…rumpled here and there

to stay at home or not

no matter… the thunder rounds herself up

she will always be near

Panicked to be Free

I stagger around in my thoughts…as if an open book

as if a locked attic with no key and skeletons that wish to be free

My panic sets in whether day or night

In small snippets I remember the daffodils, the farmland, the rebirth, the light

In small, form fit spaces…this is where the head and the heart fight

I assume nature is alarmed, possibly having already panicked years before

Perhaps, the reason for a locked attic door

Nothing More to Miss

There are moments I cannot touch…out of fear from being.

Dark, gloved hands, reaching out in leather and lace, pulling me from the sanguine times.

Floors that drop without provocation.

Shifting forest that call loud and severe.

And, yet I find, there is no voice.

Puppets and clowns amassed in bad intent.

This are the times that love and loss have lent.

I miss you when there is nothing more to miss.

I fall in love with you, each illness, each sorrow, again and again.

In the seconds that backtrack from past to present and present to future.

You are what love to be.

You are my friend.

Don’t Panic

To me…there is the possibility of

fear…

fear of what is known

fear of the unknown.

To me…there is the possibility of…

strange thoughts submerged in routine.

Always an angst devil looking over my shoulder…misinterpreting what I mean.

A heart so full it reaches into the throat.

Tranquility resides nearby…but never takes off her coat.

Panic, panic, say what?

Don’t panic, don’t panic…

the only words that I can breathe.

I look inward to a wild rose bush with thorns…

the beauty does not relieve.

Illness

She stared directly into the sun!  Soon thereafter, she fell ill for a brief period of time.  This illness…to her, abstract…obscure.  Difficult to witness.  Hard to bear.  

And, though I struggled with my own sense of reality!

Pain is pain.  

Pain is never done.

In my own reality…’who had I been to judge?’