Mementos, Loveless Years, & Soliloquies

I’m stuck in this place
shut-in an inescapable destination
she lies about her love
and I wait for the moment
she confesses–it never comes

I am a forgiving person
I think–“she’ll come to her
senses soon”
but there is no soon
and I grow tired of
standing by a shaky
promise
it is flawed and broken

lately, I’ve been feeling
flawed and broken too
finally, she waltzes in
with gifts and sweet apologies
that melt my heart

I’m putty, a weakling
she has me right where
she wants me . . .

falling back into
her world, forsaking
and forgetting mine

comme je suis

as I am

Me, chilling in Anchorage, Alaska, Summer of 2019, at Alexainie’s place. I was pretty damn happy and it shows.

An Audio Poem

I am aging in a way that brings
peace to my spirit.
It’s something I’ve been struggling
to gain for over a decade
and now, I’m familiar with how
to attain it and even more importantly,
how to keep it.

It is the month of love and everyone
is fumbling over their confessions,
careful not to spill more than
their fair share of beans
and I find myself uninterested in
their daily goings-on.
I am moving through this life
with my feet planted firmly
on the ground and every move I
design before me is planned
and calculated. I am my
own defense.

The hurdles I jumped led me to
this smooth path and although there
were holes in my soles over time,
I wear better shoes.
I am more prepared, more . . .
knowledgeable about what I want
and what I aim to get.

Each year, I think about you
and how it was hard for you
to see me for who I was
and love me for that too.
I now recognize that I was
eager to find fault in the way
I loved because it was too
much for you — it was too
bold for you and I spent
years attempting to cut out
half of the person that
made me happy simply to
satisfy you.

What kind of hell was I living in
that made me believe I was in
heaven?
I would not dare seek your counsel,
opinion, or thoughts on the matter,
you would only make me
wary and even more apprehensive.

I am finding peace in the
swell of the clouds and the
gusty landings of the wind.
I stand in a circle of forgiveness
which includes all versions
of me; past and present.
I tell them you didn’t need me.
I tell them you couldn’t love me.
I tell them we know better now.

I am who I am and to be
loved for that is the only
kind of love I envision.
If anyone interested holds something
different on their tongues,
I . . . We don’t want it.



Originally published in P. S. I Love You via Medium.

We Were Like That Lenny Kravitz Song Until We Were Finally Over

Rhythmic Prose

Photo by Jakayla Toney via Unsplash

Sometimes, I miss it. Sometimes, I don’t. You know . . . Us. It doesn’t hit me as hard as it used to when I was crawling through my twenties or attempting to climb my way through my thirties. But on those dreary, cold days where the wind is blowing harder than the predicted chill, I find myself lost in thoughts of you . . . of Us. And I do drift to a place where it’s not so easy to leave — the comfort of it can be damaging.

And who would blame me at this point? Good memories are hard to come by these days and I have enough stored up so I can pull from them at will. Isn’t that a blessing? Isn’t that something for which to be thankful? You would say so. I know this. You saw God in everything including the devil that wrapped himself up in us. You would call us golden if someone gave you the floor long enough to gloat.

I find myself lost in thoughts of you . . . of Us.

I didn’t mean to stray so far away but I was hungry — in search of other ways of getting fed and the easiest route was the one that led to strings being plucked by long, slender fingers and a voice like crème brûlée— sweet & smooth. I stuck to those things. Tangible and present. Different from what I had begun to see in you.

I could never deny the fire burning in us. We stoked it for years, poking at it with thick sticks, setting apart the embers. We had learned how to pull back just in time to save ourselves from becoming charred — scarred for life or disposable.

You saw God in everything including the devil that wrapped himself up in us.

We were music. Classical? Rhythm & Blues? Funk? Maybe we were jazz. The ease of each tune dancing across a room or a verse of scats uttered quickly by chocolate-covered lips. We lasted for hours on play. The B-side was the best side. The B-side was my best side.

Back and forth. Over and over. We had our best days and our worst days and some would say we were like that one Lenny Kravitz song until we were finally over. No more violins or bass riffs. No more snare taps or saxophone rips. No crooning or gyrating at the mic . . . We were — until we weren’t. We grew until we couldn’t.

I was hungry — in search of other ways of getting fed.

And it took so long to get to that place. What were we waiting for?

YouTube

Originally published on Medium.

Inches and Miles

“Give an #inch
& they’ll take a mile,
damn heathens.”

Grandma’s voice rang
loudly in our ears.
As she ages, there’s no
hope for discretion.

She has no #filter.

When she feels it,
she’s going to
say it.

And everyone will know.


Originally shared on Twitter as a response to the vss365 and vsspoem prompts.