My Heart redux (2012)

My Heart remains unsatisfied.
It is thirsty,
For a glass of your beauty.
It is longing,
To refresh its chapped lips with your liquid love.

My Heart continues searching.
It is lost,
In the tangled knots, drawn on that map.
It is absent,
Leaving behind a pink zipper on my chest.

You were the solar eclipse
That took its sight;
A magnet
Next to its compass.

You were the ivy
Climbing up its walls, but
Once leaves withered and fell,
You turned to a juniper.

My Heart still aches.
It is sore,
Like it went 3 rounds with Iron Mike.
It is tender,
After you hit it with that mallet over and over.

I can change the locks,
Brick up your entrance,
Dig a moat, and
Burn the bridges, but
Time waters flowers that bloom from ashes.

Shakespeare's 3 circa 2012 (2012)

Look into your mirror and tell yourself,
That I can make another with my face,
And I can put my name on history's shelf.
You're cheating the world, losing life's long race.
Will my vanity be the death of me?
Will I e'er find a field to till and seed?
A future mother of my family
Tree; one that will grow large, and will succeed.
You're your mother's mirror, and vice versa.
You were created in her youth and prime,
And though you are no longer a larva,
And despite your wrinkles, this is your time.
          If you're not meant to live through history,
          Die single, and your name will die swiftly.

3, 2, 1, Blast Off (2012)

I am straddling a rocket ship
          on a one-way course
          to the starry cosmos.
I'm a human missile,
          "Slow" is foreign language,
          mumbo jumbo,
          jargon of conservative.
The Wind's voice can't temper
          my reckless desire.
I'm a human bullet
          shot from a cannon.

The pavement is a black winding river,
          with chewed gum in it.
The white dotted line,
          is now a white solid streak.
The trees have become
          a blurred hedgerow
          made of a green rainbow.
The sun is making love with the gas tank,
          and their heat is coming off in waves.
My missile, my rocket, my bullet
          roars at me with ferocity;
          a monster I cannot escape.

Backlit gauges show me three numbers
          where two once stood.
Two, ironically, is the number of souls
          brave enough for this journey.
A Wasp, brilliant with its yellow and black,
          hanging on for survival,
          as am I.
A pilot and co-pilot
          blasting off into the unknown together,
          giving me an unfamiliar sense of comfort.
How odd indeed,
          being comforted by a Wasp.

Black metallic eyes,
          unblinking, peering forward
          into things it couldn't understand.
Only two thin yellow legs
          clung to the missile,
          the others flowed with
          the furious Wind.
The Wasp couldn't know
          where we were going.
It had taken a chance
          and landed on a bullet.

In a bat of my lashes
          a new destination has arrived.
I release my wrist's tension,
          the monster is back in its cage,
          the rocket back in the hanger,
          the bullet casing now on the ground.
I bid my co-pilot
          a fruitful future, as it flies away.

We are all Wasps,
          deep down at our molten cores.
Taking chances on things
          we may not understand.
Hanging on for dear life,
          so that the sun may once again
          warm our faces.
We are led along winding paths,
          with no way to tell
          where we are going,
          or where our journeys may end.
We are all Wasps
          clinging to something,
          as our world turns and flies beneath us.

Why Must Hindsight be 20/20? (2012)

Can you call it failure, if
You didn't really want to succeed?
My heart says yes, it drops
An anchor that'll never reach the bottom.
My mind says no, it opens
A parachute to stop the free fall.

Can you miss something, that
You never really had?
My heart says no,
The ship is pulled beneath the brine.
My mind says yes,
Thoughts and emotions get tangled in the nylon chute.

God, my head's like Boggle, with pieces that won't land.
Hindsight's lessons always seem
Out of focus and grainy.
Answers are given that cannot be read.
I must be dyslexic,
Or blind.

Forced onto the rack by my desires,
Is it solitude or is it confinement?
Affection or obsession?
Spin that wheel and I'll say "when,"
But wait - it's hard to speak with
Words made of peanut butter.

Do I really want this, or
Was I just curious?
Am I really in love, or
Was I trapped thinking of a flytrap?

Words can find their way, but
They wonder off one way, while
Actions speak with a megaphone
Leading me in another.

Summer's Slumber (2012)

Trees once a luscious green have now caught fire,
Colorful old men losing all of their hair,
From life to death their heads have changed attire,
Their falling flakes of red and orange flair.
If air had a taste, autumn's would be crisp,
Breathe in deep and your lungs will not forget,
With gusts it will sting your face like a wasp,
Cold winds catch your beating heart like a net.
Though summer's warmth is gone, I will not frown,
It's like stepping out of a hot shower,
Your pallet's been cleansed, and time to cool down,
Spring will come and I'll once again flower.
The days may have gotten a lot shorter,
But that means it'll get warmer that much sooner!

A Day and a Night that Was and Wasn't (2012)

That memory is a chest with no loot,
An orchard, without the fruit.
I was certainly here, or there,
I couldn't have vanished in thin air.

Matter without substance,
Words typed with backspace,
A mindful ignorance.

How does one
Make the nothing tangible,
A blank canvas beautiful,
Or build a piece-less puzzle?

What did we do, where did we go?
Were we young at heart, but old in soul?
Was our wondering lit by the moon's pale glow?

All of these questions but still no answer,
Maybe if I think longer and harder I'll remember...

It's so hard to put fingers on,
All of the things that I could've done,
On that night I turned the big 2 - 1.

Fire and Brimestone (2012)

Never in my life had I seen a priest yell and scream,
I stood in disbelief as I watched his heart beating in his neck,
Veins full of anger pulsed to the rhythm of his rant,
His face grew red like a warning light, faster, deeper.

My manager stood planted to the ground.
Her roots gripping and clinging to the earth against his gusts of contempt,
Absorbing all of the priest's raging heat and radiant anger,
Catching all of the rain shot out of the volcano's mouth.

On Mother's Day I saw the priest's utter disgust tattooed on his face,
"How dare you seat them before me," he said in his heated hymn,
Poking at my manager with a hand made of nails and eyes like thorns,
Crucifixion was the only solution to this heinous act.

The seven sins were the priest's obnoxious aftershave,
It was the burning smell of fire and brimstone.