Deadly Blame

Through the sweet smell of lilies...

He glared at us
Across the coffin
Where our dear friend
Rested.

His eyes accused us -
If you loved him so much
How could you
Let this happen?

We knew the reason
Our friend no longer smiled
And it was staring right at us
Across the oblong box.

Now that I am older
I understand that
He, too, knew
He shouldered most of the blame.

Ceasing Moment

I remember the moment
I said
NEVER AGAIN.
It took alot of me,
And alot from me
To utter those words
But I did it,
And it became me.

That moment changed me
Each time I felt like
Compromising
I've thought back to that moment
And all I'd taken
And all I'd given away
That brought me to that place.
Somehow any other challenge
Meant nothing to me
Because I'd already achieved
The hardest.

At the time,
Though,
It was not a
Conscience decision
To stop.
It was
The only alternative.

Suburban Awakening

It's the tale of a suburban housewife. Peering over the rose garden, pondering what to cook for dinner tonight. And yet, beneath it all, a dreamer's heart stirs. An awakening, a longing, a need to be a superhero, or a least a little off center from straight and narrow. As time eases on, traces, almost undetectable, emerge - a twinkling eye, a laugh a little too loud, a secret smile to the mirror. All signs of a soul awakening.

Commonplace Episode

The smell of strong liquor
And aftershave
Immediately spun me
Back there.
To a place without future,
Without heart, without hope.
So long ago it seems
The pieces were assembled
The picture
Made anew.
How can it be
That life's transitions
Become a commonplace episode
On the path
Of leading me here?

Happiness Not Eluded

I loved and lost
And loved again.
Then repeated this cycle
Twice more
Before stopping at
Security's gate.
Swinging open the iron
One last time
And tightly fastening
The lock behind me.
Now looking back
The expanded distance
Bland to my heart
As I realize
Happiness has not
Eluded me.

Breathing My Name

"Are you there?" I whispered.
I swear I felt your presence, softly beside me.
I heard you breathe my name, gently on the air.
I turned to look for you.
Knowing I could not see
But wishing all the same.
Has it been that long
Since you left me?
Somedays I still smell
Your sweet cologne, and vanilla.
A tear streams down my face.
Then I turn, to resume my life.
And go on,
Surviving.

Writer I Am

"I'm a writer," I said hesitantly. I could have just as easily said - "I'm a reader," with the little confidence I could muster. Isn't it weird that certain motor skills also qualify as jobs? Writer, speaker, seer, but listener or hearer means nothing? Why so much value on doing and so little on receiving the messages of others? Mental tangent passing, I thought back to my statement. What does it mean to be a writer? I used to think it meant being published - anywhere - or being tormented for not being published, those were the options. As if the mass approval / acceptance of others lent validity to the written words. Today my beliefs are altered. For me personally, being a writer involves invoking courage to honestly depict my thoughts and emotions through the written word. Only I know when that happens - regardless of what appears. If I inspire others or provoke a thought, it is but a bonus for which I am grateful.