Pride

Baby-proofing is not men wearing condoms
or women popping pills,

it is a process that involves locking
mechanisms
and elevation.

In various combinations,
I have tried both-
but now she comfortably reaches
my heights
and effortlessly spins back and forth
opening lockers with magic numbers
that are hers alone.

I have hidden all painful memories,
the sharpest points,
behind my forehead.
Too close for comfort,
she reaches my shoulders
and rest her head there.

She is drawn toward the sealed letters,
she wonders, prods, and asks
what do they  say

yet I know she will choke on the words
made not in her mother tongue.

She persists, pleading,
if you knew-why didn't you?

I don't have all the answers,
I took all the chances,
she stole glances
while I stuffed my pockets
with copper thoughts

being the safest place,
unlike the mouth
we learn the heavier our legs become,
we find memories can be-come
choking hazards.


Painting by By Waugh, Ida, d. 1919 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Baby Seated) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pain poems

Perhaps, like Plath
               and Sexton, along with
nameless Others,
Ars Moriendi,
the shared obsession
               was rebellion
               (against the self)

We do this our own way

Alone, like childhood
                and candied P's & Q's
they all thought they were
getting and making a way
                 from direction(s).

All I know
                 is that life-
the stuff that makes us up
(in the middle)
                 guts, chakra, vim, what not,
is not the same stuff
                 we put out, project,
hold title(s) to,
but the real stuff must be
                  Here somewhere...

When the pain ultimately wins,
perhaps the prize is popularity
                   in passing
as if believing in the benefits
of retirement (afterlife),
such as a tomb and sarcophagus
                    with a cat and some gold
we would reap the forever fields
                     we would have our Faith
and it would be good
enough
or worth more than Now.

Well, my well must be empty.
I hear echoes in chambers,
growls in caves,
screams behind closet doors,
and pitch so thick all is
                     hollow, except these
twisted guts, gnawing and gnashing
kicking and screaming
frozen and struck dumb-

and still
I breathe
through it.

And even when it becomes difficult-
if not
                     Impossible to stand up-
right-w/ spine straight
and those familiar serrated red daggers
twist while
blue dots with white halos pulsate
                      behind closed i-lids-
(shhh...)

I know
All will pass.




Painting by Gabriël Metsu [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.