My neighborhood is not a day, a week
or even a year, wherein I may seek.
It is life, the turns my world has taken,
pain in all the things we have forsaken.

I remember those times, keys left inside,
the car running while you go for a small buy;
or how my mother did not lock the door
when she went quickly for bread at the store.

Or how I could walk in the still of night
My heart being restful, not knowing of fright.
And old men would say, “ My word is my bond”
thought not all true, the idea was around.

Scarlet saddle blanket rests soft and plush,
‘Neath leather saddle trimmed with silver, lush.
One golden horse, with flowing cloud-white mane.
Provides a perfect throne for a temporary queen.

And thus, an earth-bound woman can be freed
From gravity’s demand, to fly on such a steed.
I feel muscles, piston-like, expand and contract
Beneath me as we exercise our mystic pact.

Another rejection
Another hope lost
Makes you wonder
If it's worth the cost

A long, long wait
And still no word
Just me sitting
In my beat up Ford

And then it's there
A new, fiery hope
But then it's crushed
And makes me choke

I want to give up
I want to call it quits
I want to stop trying
More than I'll admit

But I know I won't
I'll just keep fighting
Because if I go down
I'll go down trying

Love who were you
To this fallen tomb
Only I that without grave
May ask you
Was there some battle
To which you were a spirit
That you lay deathless
Without ease
Who was your tormentor
Who invokes the rivers rage
The heavens vengeful thundering
The earths restlessness
The beasts pity

Chiming bells toll of the purest love so rings
This simple gift then given, stands the humble and courageous apart
Deny of the pain empty sorrow may bring.
Enrich the lives of others, to a path they too can chart.

Rest easy in the nights escape hear the angels gather and sing
To put right the days recompense, a legacy all blessed souls can start
Then finding our queue preserved eternally and at peace
'neath the feet of our god, then on to our heavenly mark

Stars make everything, do they not?
As they never die, they forever live to
create cusps in time with their glitter-
exploding silently, just for a moment’s sake.
From staring contests to unseen phenomena,
the stars shoot through flesh
to bring forth frisson, and whatever else
has been missing.
Together, galaxies intersect internally
and become a wondrous monogamy
through one, sudden burst-
Stars do make everything.

The prairie grass sways in rhythm
As the cowboy starts another day,
Sun's first rays light the morning
While the horses start to bray.

Coffee and biscuits on the campfire
Those pancakes piled inches high,
Cookie yells "come and get 'er"
Who says cowboys cannot fly?

Worn jeans and shirts with patches
Hats to shade their weathered face,
Dusty boots with spurs that jingle
Chaps adorned with rawhide lace.

I sit down and realize I'm getting lost in a mirror.I guess I'm the mirror myself.

You talk to me and I answer to you. You don't remember me and I forget about your whole existence.

Everything becomes, easily, blurry memories. I'm afraid I'm a burden to those around me. But, at the same time the whole world is a burden to me. I don't know what to believe anymore.

Even my thoughts seem to be given instructions. I want to touch you, but I'm afraid I'll become a mirror again. That you will realize that too And you will be afraid of your own reflection.

Locked in the basement

There’s a dying bird in the basement-
Yet I’m far too tired to go down and chase it.
This corvid has followed me since I was a child,
I admit that I fed it, unaware that it was wild.
Like a thick black blanket — all of these crows
They stood like Gargoyles, over my childhood home.

Your eyes are the same colors as Claude Monet’s “Water Lilies”— did anyone ever tell you that?
Don’t ask me to tell you anything about the painting, I’m not a fucking art history major (I’m not pretentious enough).
But the blues and greens— I swear Monet used your eyes as a palette.

Did anyone tell you your smile was crafted by Picasso?
I know he painted in abstracts, that explains the slight crook of your smile.
I know you don’t like your smile much,
But I’ve always loved Picasso.