In Dreams

Pt. 1

I walked through a forest

of naked trees

shorn of their needles

skeleton keys

left to unlock

the salted ground

with snowflakes

The House on Dorsey Street

There is a house on Dorsey Street

I’ve passed it many times

And each time I find it weeping

Raining rivers from windows

Unused to the sun

What sadness resides

Within those walls

That it leaks so uncontrollably

I’ve heard the stories

Whispered from one ear to another

And seen the way passersby speed their steps

Looking over tweed clad shoulders and upturned collars

Lest they be recognized by what lies within

 It is after all only a house, although

Sometimes I wonder

My footsteps slow as I near the facade

And now and then I stop and grasp the iron gate

 We gaze at one another forlornly the house and I

As if we were lovers kept apart

By unrelenting parents who misunderstand our kinship

And think it something dirty and ill intended

Something frightening perhaps

 It wants me back that much is true

To walk the floors and hide behind curtains

Or in closets, safer there we thought

The house and I

And so we pine for one another

And what might have been

And what happened there once

I know that she tried to protect me

I always thought so

Offering up her secrets

And now that she is empty she cries because she couldn’t

In Lieu of Flowers

I am sorry for your loss she said

And I was unsure of my response

And so nodded as though inconsolable

Lest she see the mirth behind

The watery eyes

And she must have been convinced

Because she touched my arm and left

The casket lid was propped for viewing

A ritual insane in its design

A corpse in maquillage

Lay still while mourners and other guests

Watch for signs of decay

And comment on how good she looks

To hide their embarrassment

And still I want to laugh

I press a hankie to my face

To stem the flow

Hysteria they think

Sympathetic glances cover me in

Hives and I shake my head and sniff

Someone is singing now

Something about redemption

Atonement and that sort of thing

And suddenly I want to scream

Do you really think it matters now?

Withheld

I am watching

the way the ink bleeds. 

Dripped from a pen

poised

in hesitation.

Held by a shaking hand. 

 The grip is weak,

the words unspoken, 

 held fast in thirsty parchment.

Ash

Today I saw someone

Defeated

Burnt down to embers

Too cold to ignite

Hope

Extinguished

And in the empty grayness

Loneliness

Aloneness

Laying in the ash

Train

Waiting on the platform for the 10:15

She touches a hand to her hair

And checks her lipstick twice

Winds her watch

And looks impatiently down the line.

She tries to read in vain, a novel somewhat comedic.

Words slip past sliding by eyes withdrawn and thoughtful.

So much can be hidden in the act of holding a book.

The pretence frees her mind and a smile plays across her mouth

Lifting the corners slightly.

She removes a compact from the depth of her bag

 and presses powder across her cheeks to dim the pink anticipation.

The time is 10:05.

10 minutes.

Emotions skitter across her frame, chasing each other like puppies.

She turns the page of the book she isn’t reading.

She can hear the rumble in the distance and as she stands she smoothes

the creases from her skirt.

Her shoes are new and she hopes he notices.

A young woman has come out onto the platform.

She is holding the hand of a child who is jumping in place.

“Hush,” the young woman says, “it’s coming.”

Nervous now, she straightens her coat and pats her hair once more. 

And as she does the young woman with the child looks over

and the two exchange a smile.

Others drift out onto the platform, bored or expectant. 

Watches are wound.  Books returned to bags.  Hands are held or let go of.

The train thunders into view, a relief and a disappointment.

Metallic sounds shriek and hiss then stop and huff as though exhausted.

Doors sigh and stairs are lowered.  Places are exchanged with those waiting.

She sees him amidst the clouds and her heart quickens.

He takes long strides down the platform toward her.

He smiles and she responds in spite of herself. 

And as he moves beyond her, pulls the young woman

and child into a firm embrace the smile falters

then withers, then dies.

She lowers her gaze and lifts a hand to her hair,

 looks down at her shoes and boards the train.

I Am a Writer

I am a writer.

I’m a writer because

I put words on paper.

I find joy in blank pages and the

Words that appear like magic

Just because I want them to.

I’m a writer because

the thoughts in my head find relief in running free

Across unlined fields of parchment or kraft

Or sometimes canvas.

I’m writer because I read.

I take comfort in words, letters, vowels and verbs

I swim in them and sometimes they

Swallow me whole.

I’m a writer because I do so.

I write whether it’s correct or incorrect

Or jumbled

Or even very good.

I write because it’s part of who I am.

It’s how I am and because I write

I’m learning to ignore the other voices that yell at me

And scream things like

STOP!!!

YOU SUCK!! YOU’RE TOO OLD!!

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SAY!!

IT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!!!!

And just write anyway.

Because really, why wouldn’t I?

I am writer.