Not Always Raining

weeds-5

A damp leaf caresses my calf.

And, gently…

I become aware of where I am at.

 

Standing on the repeating ridge.

Quieting, the winds…

‘do not jump.’

 

With no recourse…

A fall begins.

Yet, there is not a landing to be found.

 

There is a vague inhabited attempt to recall the impact.

The inhabitants relay no message from the flight.

The quiet?

Drowned out for the air has been so loud.

 

So loud that…

In the downpour…

Silence is drowned by the solid ground.

Precipitously, the fog lifts…

And, I am back where I belong.

 

As if, the thickened air.

The jostled calf.

The grounded connection…

Were there for protection.

Stop Making Sense

When young I could not rearrange the shame.

I only heard words such as,

‘You are queer.’

It was then…I drew the terms of isolation near.

Amassed myself in,

ribbons, bows and the pink of fear.

Attending to only,

‘I knew there was something strange about you.’

A parent’s abolishing phrase?

Words only a child can hold dear.

The life we choose does not always make sense. If it hurts no one. It shouldn’t have to.

 

Gag Order

rumors 8

rumor 4

‘If everyone took time each

morning to air their own

dirty laundry.  We’d all be

walking ’round in our

birthday suits come

lunchtime!’

Gag Order...