Spring’s Mighty Grip On the Cusp of Summer

Musical Selection: The Isley Brothers|Here We Go Again

Another shot of my best friend’s plant therapy room. The Healing Space. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

An Audio Poem

Bugs, blooms, and birds are wild
with life, each pressing through their
own way of being.

I am gifted by the heavens to
open my eyes, spread out
my arms, and let the rain wash
over me.

Chirping pummels through my
windows, louder than I can
tolerate, but the harmony
is mesmerizing.

I won’t complain.

The dog and I walk around
our neighborhood at a fast
pace, picking up speed as
the wind howls on a subtle
spring day.

The sun plays hide-and-seek
with the clouds and every other
day is a race to beat the
grip of Winter while waiting
on the cusp of Summer.

“I have no fight left in me”
is what I tell a friend who
asks how I’m dealing
with death.
 
Death of a season
Death of a job
Death of a hobby
Death of family
Death of a friend . . .

“I have no fight left in me.”
And it’s part true and
part lie but she doesn’t
ask a follow-up question
and for this, I am grateful.

I spend most of my
vacation time away at my
best friend’s house lulled
by nature in her
plant therapy room,
losing who I was — 
finding who I should be.

I am changing with the
season and with every breath
I’m given, I look forward
to shedding this skin.

I want to see the person
under it.

I’ve been waiting to
meet her.


Originally published in Where Wild Things Grow via Medium as a response to the May the Seasons Change prompt.

I loved a woman once…

Audio Prose

Odilon Redon|Angelica on the Rock–1904

And, I thought that perhaps, she loved me too. We find out the strangest things when we confess–when we reveal our feelings to others. What seemed to be a connection built from words and learning the backgrounds of our lives’ pasts was just… two people sharing a oneness and the similarities that surrounded us were not meant to be taken and held up to a promising light. There would be no romance, no spinning of the times, no eruptions of heart-throbbing, pulsing love-making, and nothing else that would classify in the realm of labels, a relationship.

Communication, I was always told, is key and when I communicated to her my feelings, that proved to be my doom. It was not the only time, for I am a knower of rejection. It has laid up with me, it sometimes has a home when I do not seek its company. Yes, it was not the only time, but it was the last and it hurt like hell. I still see her in my dreams, hear her voice, know her words. When you love a Writer, you know that they have the power to build you up or tear you down, and they do not do it as a courtesy to you, in your face, it comes in their work. And you, being a Writer yourself, you do it too.

I loved a woman once…

And, she taught me that it is not always best to share one’s feelings, that the tides have various shifts and changes and if you are not careful, you will be swept up with the seashells and gritty sand. I do not know what it is like to turn off my heart. I wish I did. There are days where I wish I did not know her voice, did not know how common words such as “caress” and “safety” sounded as they rolled away from her tongue. We take things along with us from the hurt places. Unknowingly, sometimes we keep them and when they see fit, they raise up at the wrong moment, reminding you of just how sharp that pain was.

I loved a woman once…

And I have written fifteen poems about her, only sharing two of them when asked, and reminded of just how close I am to dying an early death in the game of love. She would have no remorse, and why should she? The line had been drawn and I watch where it lies, mindful not to cross it. What have I learned? That the heart wants what it wants yet the mind has to remind it that sometimes, it cannot have what it wants… And sometimes, without its knowledge, it is for the best.

I loved a woman once…

And she loved me enough to not love me back.