Forward

There's love where we started.

In the soil, flowers and pine needles.
Where only the future whispered, "Come forward."
Before the dusk would fall.

Where bike rides turned to triumphant races.
New friends meant sisters for life.
Where music was simply music. And we smiled because we
wanted to.

We sit now. Rocking forward. back. forward.
Wood creaking beneath the weight of history.
Where only the past whispers, "Come back."
And all I wish is that someone would again take my hand.

National Poetry Month Day 24: haiku

I head to the west
for manifest destiny
seeking hearts of gold

.................

National Poetry Month Day 23

Goodbye is simply
laughing as we fall
scraping our knees against uneven sidewalk
as the skateboard wheels continue to turn

Goodbye is simply
an old notebook curled at page ends
ink graved into yesterday
hoping only time would leave

Goodbye is simply
sweat beads cradling nooks of skin
pushing forward as we move really nowhere
knowing each step loses something 

National Poetry Month day 21: Mother's Duty

She wakes before the sun
before the wind
when there is stillness
wondering what her child will face at dawn

She knows Nature's secret,
as it quakes and chills and robs
the life of those who deem themselves civilized

Mother Nature prays to a God not known
wailing pleads into her tumultuous storm
as fever breaks and a rash upon Earth's back
Mother Nature wonders what cause to scorn

Who can blame a mother in distress,
Aching for her child to find rest?

National Poetry Month day 20: The Moon

Where have all the images gone
reflected in an empty mirror?

What deep rumbling from the clouds above
have stirred me night after night?

There was man in that moon,
The lonely chill made him fall.

His death came too soon.

Second chances ran too far.

A heart would one have if they'd find his cold soul,
and carry him over the stars.

National Poetry Month day 19: The Crumb

The best things in life are never rationed
and yet I feel as though love has been portioned for me
my icy rage only gashes at
the open wound of wishes

And that wound only bleeds out words til nothing is left but a
empty carcass that possesses no inspiration
stenches the air with such smell that the world abhors it
The non-creativity, non-energy and non-presence leaves stains on your
clean white shirt

The shirt you were going to wear tonight

The best things in life are never rationed
yet the only thing dear to me has been
taken

a glorious death of praise
and I am left to catch the crumbs of disguise

National Poetry Month day 18: The Painter

Snared by the weight of the dripping heart,
breaths hallowed in the corpse

The bites in womb,
thrashes on the face
Stains
ancient as dusts collects
Color is drained skin

A cold settling wind knocks rosy cheeks against jaw bones
extravagant gowns droop into rags
They dance, they dance
as if death played a tune

paper torn
crumpled

The painter
reaches for a brush to paint love again