Woundology
I keep my collection of wounds
covered with the band-aids of experience.
Some are small and mostly healed
barely leaving a small mar
upon my exterior.
Some go much deeper
creating tunnels and gouges
deep into my heart and soul.
My core penetrated,
slowly I began to mend,
flesh knitted, sewn.
Dissolvable stitches
or black thread
neatly sewn over punctures
is how I remember you.
Sometimes I seek
one more cut,
bruise or bump.
They say you bleed
just to know
you are still alive.
I know I live
because I feel
the itch of flesh healing
and I go on.
I keep my collection of wounds
covered with the band-aids of experience.
With Ink Of Gold
The angels who write
on the purest parchment
with inks of gold
are writing his name
in the stars.
Today I miss
an old friend.
Larry was a poet
from Kansas.
A mere writer,
one of many
he would say.
I cried at the news,
Another mentor gone.
He was always here,
with his clever pen
and haunted prose,
a man who knew pain
and love for others.
When friends pass away
it leaves a gulf in our hearts.
The angels who write
on the purest parchment
with inks of gold
are writing your name
in the stars.
May God bless
and keep you.
Winter 2010
The cold winds and blowing snow finally came with the forecast warning more of the same. I curled my fingers tight in thick fleece mittens, hoping to avoid little pinkies being frostbitten. I crave the searing heat of an open flame. "This winter is lasting forever," is my claim. I shiver, so cold I think I forgot my name. I am gale tossed, like an abandoned kitten. Blowing snow finally came. I should be warm, I have meat on my frame, so maybe this barren, frigid place is to blame. I rock and sway, teeth chattering, wind smitten. The book on Global Warming must be rewritten. "Sissy! The garage is heated!" my wife proclaims. Blowing snow finally came.
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