Musings with Morning Coffee

This week, a woman was shot

in my city. It happened but a few blocks 

from where my children, and I, sleep.

This morning, her ex was found

in his car, on a road I cross every day,

four months after their

relationship had ended.

His suicide is thought to be 

his admission of guilt, 

his resignation

of what could have been.

I will not condone murder,

and love is only love if it is mutual, 

otherwise, McCullers explains it best.

Between lover and beloved, lover

is the more favorable position,

but intoxicated with fantastic notion

of what this person makes you feel,

beloved becomes victim,

playing with fire, like a fearless

stuntman, risking more,

everytime they interact.

If lover cannot handle pain,

bitterness will take over, and fester

in that broken heart.

Beloved, let me love you

by letting you go. 

There will be

no coercion  of my own will

over yours.

I would never bring about your end, 

and I believe the fact that 

a man takes his own life, after robbing her

of her life,

shows that even lovers

know their plight. Not having

to hold, is not the worst thing,

if the other does not wish

to be held.

What matters is when we realize

to let go.

I’ve been in far too many situations

where someone wanted me to

be, for them, what I was not,

and I didn’t have the courage to

speak against them. 

It is just as frightening

to be beloved,

as it is painful

to be lover.

Heal Yet, Flowers

Oh! But I did not see you there,
and I have traipsed across your
petal faces, and how rude of me.
I cannot undo my stepping,
the breaking of your slender
necks, a snapping of my
clumsy step.

You’ve been thirsty under a merciless noon sun, held through
the biting frosts, and despite your
tribulations, you have not
succumb to time or weather,
yet I have done a great disservice to
you, parting from the paved trail.

I can help you stand a bit.
Lean your sagging heads against
your sisters’ leafy arms and rest.

Heal yet, flowers.
Be well again.
May my treason be undone.
Bless each one of you,
unopposed and unprotected.

Thoughts in the Dishes

I wash dishes endlessly, but I do not pay it mind. Torrent thoughts into
my daily tasks, and memories long
forgotten, surfacing above the graying water like coffee cups of every shade.

Twirling in whimzical waxy Crayola
pencils, which we asked
to borrow, and my precious “neon” Gel pens, make a card for her
twelfth birthday.

I handed the crumpled,
sweaty dollar bills to the
camp snack bar attendant for
some Reese’s, and a bottle of
Code Red Mountain Dew,

all a part of a present
that she giggled with glee over,
and she loved the hearts and butterflies hand-drawn.

All she wanted that Summer
was to hike with someone to
the waterfalls, but it was sweltering
in North Texas, so I went swimming
every afternoon instead.

When camp was over we said goodbye,
but being a member of the same church, it didn’t seem so final,
until the day my parents asked me if
I knew her.

Sometimes I still feel the ice cold
sensation, like death itself has gripped
my heart, laughing at my bewilderment
as he spares me and takes those I love.

I splash into the old sink water,
blindly feeling to pull the plug,
and watch dully as water
spirals down the drain.

Swallowed By the Beguiling Sea

The advice she gave me rattles through,
shaking the dust and cobwebs
from the furthest corners of my brain.
Such a strange thing, it is, to realize
you are dying.
Stranger still to watch it happen.
Pressed up against the glass,
we peer into your life
pouring hopes and anxieties
sobering our emotions.
Death is painful,
agony’s brilliance, sparking into
all of the scattered memories
felt but not seen.
Removing all but fear,
we grasp each other,
trying to come to terms with your
newfound truths,
whispering and hiding tears,
falling without our consent.
How odd it must be to be grieved
still living, watching as your family
and friends say goodbye.

Waiting for death to finally take you,
and he sits in a corner,
politely waiting for your sister to get here.
He tries to be unseen,
holding still as a statue
cutting the fabrics of time and space,
to collect the ones he needs.

Why do we pretend that life is full of meaning
when none of us really understand ourselves?
Each dogmatic, spiritualistic, and philosphical response
falls short, and few of us are ever
truly awakened.

I feel as if I have been cast
deep into the depths
of a monstrous sea.
Fortune guides me into the eye
and I watch the zypher and the storm
swirling around me, whipping my hair into my face.
I clutch to my small bouy,
upset by the tempest waves,
thrown toward the blackening depths, crushing weight of water, overhead,
and I struggle.
I fight for my life, my will to live, clawing at the water in attempt to surface, kicking furiously.
Lungs are burning, breath is lost,
and finally fatigue sets in.
Gravity pulls me down, further than
I would have ever imagined going
and I am helpless, sightless, and defeated.
I sit at the bottom and wait
and hope I am forgotten.
Nothing is more painful
than watching people you love