Motherf*cking Encouragement

Not going to let me stop
let me drop out of the moment
or cancel my subscription.
Not going to let me tear out the pages
give in to rages more spectacular
than not
Not going to tell me the answers
or dance around the cast
of characters you know I need to see
Not going to take away my direction
arrest my inflection of thought
or take my power from me,

are you?

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Cents

Not encroaching,

not standing on either side of the coin,
the dark or the light,
the metal or the soft

not beckoning it to turn
preparing for the dizzy spin
the revolving circus jumps it makes.

No,

the truth is the coin has one face
and we stand together
as we love the cents
we see.

On the Eve of a Lifelong Dream

Step into the wind
blink three times for each season of memory
each moment you were comforted with the thought
that you would someday take this first step.

Wring out the remaining stuck
the matter of shoulds and should-nots
embrace the arms that guided you here
those beaming souls of light and leisure

loving you the entire day through.

Recognize an altar as it flames
smile and sing that soft refrain
your story has never stopped,
never lulled

Your pen as strong as your needle and thread.

I knew the silence

I awoke with validation
a stemmed confession ready for penning.
Instead I knew the silence.

The crisp in the morning touched my cheeks
pinking my flesh to match my heart
worrying my lip with my teeth and trimming
my thoughts

Instead I knew the silence.

I trickled into a corner to think, sipping on solitude
and wearing the mittens of merit
like a badge from a girl scout.
I wanted to shout from the rooftops

Instead I knew the silence.

I wanted to wait, to succumb to the sate
to shower you with images wanted
and snatch them from the ether.

Instead I knew the silence.

I count on one hand the times my virtue
won out over the tide of my heart.

But I awoke to crisp with validation
to pink my heart with confession and passion
but found it was already full.

I knew the silence.

Shoulder to Shoulder: a series of haiku

the storm may be fierce
the damage inflicted harsh
but I am here too

the boughs may be strong
the wind howling through our souls
but quiet comes next

the sun peeks outside
the beams play soft in your beard
wind ruffles your hair

bond long weathered now
like wood tendrils and roots
stronger together.

Practice

I hit the A instead of the F#
and I return to you.

Colorful keys caressed and life-breathing motion
of your eyes match the heart
of my practice.

I hit the A instead of the F#
and I return to you

Your acceptance lays upon the notes
Waiting patiently for me
Your hand outstretched to show your reach
Your warmth gravitating toward my weep

My wants and worries war within
But soon routine takes over.

I hit the A instead of the F#
and I return to you.

You shower me in surety
And my bones don’t look so scary anymore.

Word of the Day Poem: Fritter – to break or tear into small pieces or shreds.

Cogitation on Torn Paper

We sit at the diner,
two mirrors facing their reflection.
The tip of your chin sits perpendicular
to the words you dribble onto the counter.

I can see your feelings silk-screened onto your face,
funneling into your hands, in the way they fritter the napkin,
then the straw wrapper.

I can feel the little pieces,
blowing across my skin
scurrying onto my plate
from the draft in the door

I can feel our words fly similarly in the air,
swiftly navigating the tension of time
and drift across the surface of our solidarity.

After the diner, we say goodbye
and I wrap my arms around your bones
my frittered soul
coming back to me.

Beachcomber

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Be the Change.”

I want to herald the next wave
renaissance the writers and weave
the words I write
into their hearts and ears.

Allow writers to poem
to give weight to their worded feelings
to clear their throats and cull the craft

from their daily tweeted toast.

Bring the poetry back to the electronic age
and let us all solidify our footprints
with beauty and grace
with ugly and awkward
with one-hundred new words in our creative lockers
and the old emotions still washing ashore.