Inspiration from others – Page 3 – Elizabeth Oakley Weaver

Soaked

SOAKED


I want you in my home to know you’re not alone 
in those long-shadowed halls paced by perpetually 
lost—dementia scouring their last stains of memory

          more than safe,
          I want you to feel safe
          yet I’m drowning in this 
          deep dank bog of lung

rain sluices from leaves beneath a starless sky
as distant shouts urge me to find my way back
yet I am beyond lost having unwrapped and dropped 
their safety rope from my waist so I could reach you
 
       all my cells replicated yours when you were 
       my sole cord to life—for that I worshipped you 
               till the God, Hormones, ascended

as I stumble over elephantine roots, 
machete through plants so large dinosaurs 
must still exist on this swampy earth,
my lungs match each step's suck of mud, 
every breath a drowning, yet I won’t 
release this taut line between us mottled 
with white ash and blood dark wine nor
understand how your Emmental brain 
won't let you walk or know where you are 
in time, yet provides lucid wit and end-
less memory for the inconsequential

                                    

       years now since I severed and flung 
our rope in your flames yet you remain 
      tangled as worry and seared to my palm
when I reach for you in wake or in dream
      unable to rest or breathe for want of you

Thank you to the editors of Melancholy Hyperbole for first publishing this poem in an earlier version.

Choose

sculpture by Jun Kaneko; photo by Elizabeth

Between stimulus and response 
                 there is a space.
  In that space is our power to
             choose our response.
    In our response lies our
         growth and our freedom.

   ~Viktor E. Frankl

Vida

They threw us away
but forgot
we are seeds.


                            ~Clarissa Pinkola Estes' friend~

Fairyland Smile

Star Spangled

“The Star Spangled Banner”

Jake Shimabukuru, ukulele

Jimi Hendrix, Woodstock

Cactus Cuties

Marvin Gaye

If

Math Genius

If you think dogs can’t count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then giving Fido only two of them.

Phil Pastoret

Graffito

GRAFFITO

Three distinct letters, 
discrete as whispers
yet stark as sunrise,
stain this park’s 
concrete wall. 

S insinuates 
the dark entrance,
secret from those
passwordless,
but once in, one
snakes along this
sinuous passage

toward E, 
which sighs
like a wind-filled
cavern 
in the fold of a word
so bare 
it exposes the language of pores 
opening like stomata 
along nerve-laden skin,
of tongues probing  
tasting  moistening  unveiling
revealing the voracious 
pulse and press of pelvis  
belly  
even neck, bared 
for the thin membrane of skin,
primordial as sound rising 
from ancestral marrow
formed of molten rock and sky-filled sea

before X marks the space 
within and between.

Thank you to the editors of HOT FLASHES: sexy little stories and poems for first publishing this poem.