Angel Baby

 Today I find myself missing you. 

The bad, the ugly, the scary, 

Missing the sound of your tiny not so big heartbeat.

Missing your small body that was going to grow so big.

Today, I find the tears are more on the surface 

I find myself still hating how my body failed you.

Your life was small but I can still feel your soul imprints in my heart. 

We talk about the future and how maybe one more try.

I’m not sure I can, I am scared, I’m terrified. 

The boys want a little girl or another little boy.

The what-ifs bounce around my brain, and I am thinking of you again.

I can’t lose another one.

I can’t fall down that abyss, that black hole one more time.

I don’t know if I’m strong enough, I was barely strong enough to lose you and replace you with another.

Today, I am thinking of you and my heart is heavy and hurting.

Today, I’m going through your memory all alone.

Philiophobia

 Your light so dim

I find myself probing and tugging on the tether our souls. Your heartbeat is slow and labored. Your soul feels faint...fading. My soul is pulling, treading water to keep us both afloat.

My body and being refuse to let you drown, 

I cling to your soul remembering the memories that were happy, sad, maddening, and gut wrenching. Our bond grows soft but I refuse to watch your demise....your supernova. 

I wrap you in a fierce embrace, tendrils holding you close. Your breath with mine. Slowly. 

I won’t let go. I can’t let go, even if it kills me

I can’t do that kind of hurt again.

Arcane

 The moon always so full of himself, but when was that ever a bad thing.

Waxing and waning , disappearing for his own selfish reasons, looking to impress no one but himself

or so it seems. 

Moon makes nostalgic company.

Night conversations, where he confides of the grief he feels. He mourns the glory of Sun.

Only stealing bits of rays to experience a kiss, a touch of her light, her fire.

And i tell him of you. How you make my soul feel alive, sharing in each others light.

Supernatural

 working with shadows is messy business

it's slippery

my hands and clothes always come out damp and sticky.

rubber gloves and hazmat suits don't help much, unless you don't

mind a super-glued skin that smells like rotten eggs and chocolate milk.

Without an Umbrella

 He loves moonlight and shooting stars

and thunderstorms

and football games

and so many other things that have life, fire, and soul.

Soul Catchers

 We touched souls

but not in true love kind of way.

A " Oh there you are, I have been looking for you!" kind of way.

Intimate but not by touch or sight.

Our souls gently tugged on the webbing of connections. 

A slight pull sinful, sensual, liberating, and freeing. 

Our beings intertwining in a complex waltz across the stars.

Something foreign and friendly all at the same time. 

Our lives didn't quite fit together in a jigsaw kind of way

but, our souls knew how to dance, our souls knew how to sing

our souls knew how to debate and exchange. Our

souls used to write love songs and rebel manifestos. Our souls communicated

not through human language but through poetry, deep feelings, metaphors, classic books,

rock 'n' roll, recipe cards, and karma sutras. They didn't have to spend a lifetime translating

each others souls.

Contortionist

Souls that tangle and twist are the most beautiful

the ones that are tortured and artistic in their own ways.

Outsiders, rebels, the broken and down trodden, the loners

starving artists, eccentrics, the little bit crazies. 

Most vibrant, complex, connected canvas of soul.

Rebels and Rainbows

 Her soul was a wild one

finding magic in late nights and sunrises.

finding reflection after a night of binge drinking, shots and shots 

of peppery-fire tequila.

folding worries into paper airplanes and cast off love notes.

finding purpose in black morning coffee and chocolate sprinkle cupcakes.

She had the best stories, but girls who drink whiskey and strawberry

margaritas always do.

Primrose

 Let us live as flowers

unafraid of wild

springing up everywhere 

through cracks and open fields

drenched in thunderstorms and sunshine.

Orphic

 Painted leaves blowing as tiny queen stars 

twinkling with every brush of a breeze swelling in waves

first small and barely lapping the branches.

Rippling down to the base of swollen trunks,

sapling bends as a mast of a ship

slowly.

Clear turquoise sky, solid, hurts your eyes while looking too long.

flat, matte.

An arcrylic colored sky, painted across a night time canvas

Smell of rain touched mud, wet grass, musty wood

gasoline, dry pine smoke.

Robin my only companion, tending to a hidden nest 

beneath the balcony rafters. Back and forth, side to side

gathering twigs and sticks.

Buzzing of honeybees pollinating yellow wildflowers.

Primal, insect lovemaking, rubbing bodies between pollen-laced petals.

disappearing playmates into the tall grass.

A little, finding enjoyment in the random scattering

of rocks and pebbles.

Now grimy hands savoring the many textures of wild.

Yellow sun, hot and sweaty, intoxicating thrumming

Ba-boom, ba-boom of the steady heartbeat

laboring under the blistering rays.

Angels of Chaos

 They stole things no one would miss,

small things first

like time, copper pennies, and sleep

Heavenly disguised angels 

but, their wings gave them away

oily, black, and sleek

Chaos makes their tea and cereal the same way

every evening

milk always first

Form of payment for services rendered 

euros, dollars, stirling silver, broken hearts, red lego bricks

and mismatched socks.

Ghost Stories

Ghosts leave imprints of people on places. Places soak up the tendrils of the dead, hoping to sponge up the last particles of life.
Rust and rot char away at broken windows
infested wood frames
and twisted metal of shells of homes.
Ghosts transcend dimensions to cling to the unfinished memories
memories of a life half lived.

Unanswered letters blow in the dead hanging breeze, never to be opened,
apologies left unsaid, half truths, and honey soaked flattery fading into the pages,
disappearing like the dust of the desert.

I refuse to live among the ghosts, I refuse to live a cursed life. I won't trap myself like an animal. Losing my humanity, laying wake to insanity. Becoming something raw, primal and savage. Ghosts are petty fed on revenge and jealousy of the living.

I want to live in the sun, i want to shout to the tops of branches, i will be known today!

when my time grows short, i won't gasp for images of the past, my life will have been full.
Surrounded by my children and grand-children.
Grey haired and content. I refuse to fade into a ghost.

I will live a life loved. Full.
My ghosts will fade, i will no longer be prisoner.

Thousand Pieces

A part of me died that day, a part of my soul shattered into a thousand pieces.

4 words. 4 words was all it took.

"There is no heartbeat."

Those words hung in the air thick and sticky.

I feel the screaming before i hear it. every fiber in my body screams. 

No, no no no no no no no

I remember everything.

I was losing you so little, so much potential and i couldn't stop it.

My body was failing you. 

I remember them pulling pieces of you out so i wouldn't have to do it at home.

I remember the nurses all crying

I remember my lungs feeling the verge of collapse as i forgot how to breathe. My soul was shattering and no amount of duct tape could keep it together. 

2 days ago i saw your little heartbeat, i saw you wiggle and move. Turning from a tadpole embryo to something more human. You were gone days later and i hated myself.

That morning i woke up full of hope and excitement. I was pregnant but by the afternoon i wasn't. 

I remember slipping into the car and not wanting to go home. Home was safe hours ago, but home was where all hope went. 

A part of me died that day, my soul shattered into a thousand pieces and i am still hunting down those pieces. slowly healing, slowly learning to love myself again.

 slowly realizing it is okay to love my miscarried baby and my rainbow. some days the horrors of that day still break into my dreams. Terrified to think about even trying again, my rainbow's pregnancy was just as rough as your miscarriage. i constant trigger. I am terrified to get pregnant again, but also terrified that i won't ever be again. Luckily i don't have to think that far ahead. just do the next right thing a day at a time. Healing is freeing and sad at the same time. but i am happy to be moving forward not backward.

Better Company

The pages crisp, white, newly-printed. Pressed
safely side by side.
Silent companions.
Colored covers with obscure titles and coy pen names.

I prefer the company of older voices.
Those of Thomas Moore, Jane Austen, Bram Stoker.
Echos of the past that resonate some fractal for of fate.
Lives lived and lives forgotten.

Late nights, early mornings.
Fingers bruised with the tattoos of graphite and colored highlighter.
Writing my own words hidden in the faded pages
Mingling age old insight with those of a woman finding her way back to her own skin.

My favorites are dog-eared, diet coke stained, scribblings
scrunched in the margins. Dusted and smelling of ink, old, pool chlorine

I prefer the company of books. Less hurtful more complicated.

Just rough plots and sharp edges.