Fault Lines

You taught me to fear the silences.
Like the eerie quiet of nature before a seismic event,
They descended, ominous
Harbingers of doom.
Every pause pregnant with dread
A warning that disaster was imminent.

Each one left me scrambling
To uncover what horrible
Transgression triggered the
Latest tremors,
And what I could do to appease
The demon.

But that was as effective
As the ancient priestess
Sacrificing to the god of the volcano
Desperate to stave off eruption.

The explosion always came.

How odd now it feels to dismantle the
Inner seismometer,
Lose the habit of duck and cover,
And realize that I wasn't responsible
For the shifting along your fault lines.

Now that I've moved away from  the epicenter
I see clearly
Your continental drift was beyond
My control.

Aspiration

Someone recently pointed out to me the relationship to reading (breathing in)
and writing (breathing out).

I can certainly concur.

I have been panting, taking in everything - all the evidence, the elaborate explanations.
Inhaling the stories, the circumstances, the conditions.
Every thing you spewed out, I took in with gulping breaths,
Holding it all in until my lungs felt like they would burst.

It's toxic, and yet I was afraid to exhale, unwilling to release it.
So I held my breath until I was weak.
Like a child throwing a temper tantrum, I held until I passed out.
Then the survival instinct kicked in - breaths came shallowly,
But my body was so desperate to hang on to  that old, stale air.

The run forces me to breathe deeply,
And afterward, the pen pries my stubborn lips apart.
In and out.  They conspire to make me inhale the new sights
New faces.  Fresh and clean.  Bright and buoyant the cool air comes.
And to make room for it, I exhale deeply, and breathe you out.

Breaths become sobs, but each one cleanses
Wracking and squeezing out the poison.
Until there is nothing left for me to do
But breathe.

Place for Rent

This place was a mess
When I got the listing.
Dark, stuffy, Oppressive
And, boy was it wrecked.

Had barely been
Maintained at all...
20 years of constant occupancy,
And very little upkeep.

The last tenant had to be
Forcibly removed after.
A lengthy eviction process,
He left the place a shambles:

Structural damage,
Walls kicked full of holes,
Overflowing with his garbage,
It took months to clean it all out.

It's a great little place - Has good bones.
Great location.
Quality neighborhood.
But golly was it a mess.

It's since had a complete renovation.
We started from the foundation up.

Tore up the ratty carpet and found
Gorgeous hardwood floors.
All polished up now.

Knocked down a few walls
To open up the floor plan.
Now a fellow can breathe in here.

Freshened up the paint,
Cleaned all those dingy windows.
Now it's lighter, brighter.

Still a few scars from
Past occupants, but in the business
We like to call that "character."

It's available now, but
We aren't advertising.
Instead we're relying on word-of-mouth.

Of course, with all the
Improvements we've had to
Raise the rent a bit.

If you asked me, that was the trouble before.
The rent was too low.  You have to set a
Higher price to keep out the riff-raff.

Still, considering all you get -
The quality of the location
It's quite a bargain.

Thank you, River

Thank you, River
          for rocks and rapids and
          your gentle flow.

Thank you, Trees
          for bent, bowed, and twisted branches
          that lean over the waters.

Thank you, Turtles
          for taking pleasure in the sun with
          utter disregard for the pleasure it brings the observer.

Thank you, Travelers
          for blazing this trail, marking it
          so I could find my way to this place.

Thank you, Creator
          for fashioning all this and allowing it to grow and change
          and unfold into this moment.

Nature's Healing

When my heart was wounded,
                 I sought out the gentle ministrations of nature.
The woods surrounded me and applied
                Gentle pressure to stop me from bleeding out.
The river cleansed my wounds
The leaves provided dressings to bandage them
Twining vines wrapped them snugly
The breeze soothed me.
The currents lulled me to sleep.
                 And I was healed.

Not Much More I Can Say About That...

When you find the perfect words expressed in the perfect way, sometimes you just have to let them stand on their own.

I could liken you to a werewolf,

the way you left me for dead

But I admit that I provided a full moon

And I could liken you to a shark

the way you bit off my head

But then again,

I was waving around a bleeding, open wound

But you were such a super guy

Till the second you get a whiff of me

We are like a wishing well

And a bolt of electricity

But we can still support each other

All we gotta do's avoid each other

Nothing wrong when a song ends in a minor key

Nothing wrong when a song ends in a minor key

The lava of the volcano

shot up hot from under the sea

One thing leads to another

and you made an island of me

And I could liken you to a chemical,

the way you made me compound a compound

But I'm a chemical too

Inevitable you and me would mix

And I could liken you to a lot of things

But I always come around

'Cause in the end, I'm a sensible girl

I know the fiction of the fix

But you were such a super guy

Till the second you get a whiff of me

We are like a wishing well

And a bolt of electricity

But we can still support each other

All we gotta do's avoid each other

Nothing wrong when a song ends in a minor key

Nothing wrong when a song ends in a minor key

Nothing wrong when a song ends in a minor key

Nothing wrong when a song ends in a minor key

Read more: Fiona Apple - Werewolf Lyrics | MetroLyrics

What is The Point in This?

February 1, 2015

Why do I write the plaintive messages? These love letters to a man who will not see them, and even if he does, is unlikely to be moved by them?

At first they were hopeful, almost romantic. A little message in a bottle, thrown out to sea, carrying all the things that I wanted you to know during our time apart. I imagined that you would pluck the little bottle from the water, read the words, and know you were loved.

Later, they became statements of purpose, to prove (prove to who?) that I was coping during our time of estrangement. All the things I wanted you to know, typed up just for you. I imagined you reading them and being impressed at my progress.

Now these words feel less like a romantic message in a bottle and more like a huge billboard on the side of a road that you never travel.  They are not the powerful messages I had hoped they would be.

So who is this for, exactly? What is the point to this? And why am I spending my time doing this?

Ah, yes.  I do this for me.