Thank you all for dropping in on this one. You have all been very helpful,

Duck!

Forgive Me Father
 
for I have sinned. 
It happened when it rained, one afternoon,
in the day long scar. It was the day
god sent rain to muffle the cries,
when revenge muffled bliss, and then left 
its warmth upon me.  It was 
the afternoon I was first bound,
when I first felt the downpour
of hot wax on my chest, and how it stung
like a slap of bare hand on bare a$$.
But, when I could no longer bear it,
whenever I screamed grandma, she was there.
It was how her skin was more a bag 
of crochet hooks against mine, how 
her life was loosely thrown,
and her secret became our own.
It was then the candlelight caught with my bellows,
our shadows flexing, relaxing, rising in adagio. And,
when my shadow melted into hers, I kissed back dark
like bruises.   When the policeman came, 
and tried to pull off his girlfriend,
I dropped him with his own pistol. This was my bit@h.
And for a day, we prayed, until the O she mouthed
was no longer shaped by the muzzle of my gun,
until freedom came at death and resurrection,
until she was ready to pass on, the lady
who would live and die by design.  I still 
bear the warmth of her skin against mine.
Come, and let me hug you,
so that she may say goodbye.

Oh wow, I totally forgot I posted this. Thanks for dropping by pkd1220, I'm glad you enjoyed!

Duck!

manOfewwords, I appreciate your kind words. Thank you for dropping by,

Duck!

esebulldog, Semper Fi devil! Thank you for posting that, the only prayer I know. To the only religion I know. And carry on.

Duck!

red_lace, I'm glad you enjoyed the narrative, and that it brought about your similar experiences. Thank you for dropping by and for your kind words.

pkd1220, thank you thank you


Duck!

The Rifle Under My Pillow
 
I thought I forgot, but I remember. I remember now the distinct sound of the spring recoil of an M16, how, with that sound, the metal and plastic, it almost felt like a toy. How, when I gripped it for the first time it felt heavy, but soon became part of my body, and unnoticeable. I remember how it was my own, with its unique serial number, and unique discoloring from wear in the metal that created its own fingerprint. There was tension in the trigger, inherent to mine, a love we both understood. I remember the smell of cordite after firing and how I loved that smell. How .556 casings from the Marine next to me seemed to always find my skin and burn. How the barrel guard O rings always seemed difficult to push, no matter whose rifle it was. I remember the smell of CLP oil, how the rifle and that smell are one and the same. How the cleaning rod always fell through the base of the barrel butt first. I remember how my 16 was always on my body, or within arms reach, near me as I slept, and how I gave it a girl’s name. How I always loaded twenty eight rounds instead of thirty into the magazine clips, so the weapon wouldn’t jam on first fire.  That we ‘Conditioned 1’ our weapons.  I remember how one night I loaded all tracer rounds, so I could create a fan of lights in the dark. I remember how I had no value in the field without it. I remember now how I used to be as hot, or as cold as the metal in my hands.
 

Thank you Ainjel!

Balloon Girl
 
I.
 
When the city cried
for a new superhero,
I was born of helium and air. 
I stringed together with balloons
so that I may be grounded. 
 
My qualities are few
but I don't object. I am V shaped,
like an ice cream drumstick,
so that I may be liked. When I get agitated,
I amass like a puffer fish,
so that my body might fit in anger.
And I am bright,
like a school of fish
or a bucket of apples. 
 
II.
 
An overpass mends a boulevard
like a stitch. There, a hot dog vendor rotates his 
college diplomas in his own empire.
His business is slow but I can help.
I arrange my shiniest balloons
to the outsides and attach myself
to his cart like an advertisement.

III.
 
There is a quadriplegic at an intersection.
He cockeyes four crosswalks,
and none. I will help him cross safely.
I tie heart balloons to his automatic wheelchair
as he fondles the control handle
with his chicken foot hand.  
 
IV.
 
I am worn 
of old city do-gooders,
the spider
that spins silly webs,
the bat
that flies in circles.
I will save the vain
with rubber lips.
When a balloon deflates,
I'll heal it.  
 
 
 

Ainjel, thank you again for dropping by and your continued support,

Duck!

Stefy, thank you thank you~

Duck!

iam4u, I'm glad you enjoyed this one. I appreciate you dropping by,

Duck!

pkd1220, thank you for dropping by and for your kind words!

Duck!

Play-Doh

this is my yellow can of play-doh with its pink lid ~ this is how my fingernails catch at the edge of the lid and lift it open ~ this is how i dump my new play-doh on top of the table and how it looks like bubble gum ~ this is how it squeezes through my fingers and the bubble pops and the doh gets warm and soft ~ i knead the doh with wooden roller hands ~ this is the pizza i made with the lid and this is how i smash it together to make a ball ~ this is a small piece on my tongue and this is my salty face ~ i pin the wet piece back and then i make the other eye and then i poke for a nose ~ this is how i make mister potato head ~ i open up more colors of play-doh ~ this is yellow for my birthday cake and green for the money to buy the cake ~ this is red for the fire trucks that came after daddy hung himself in the garage on his own belt ~ this other doh is my christmas tree and this my christmas gift and santa didnt come because mommy said i was bad ~ these are the friends i made and this one i hide with under the bed after mommy drinks her beer ~ this is what the colors red and blue make like the bruises i get when i dont finish my food and this is how ive learned to run to my neighbors house ~ this is my play-doh in my new house in the wrong color cans after the police took me away from mommy ~ and this is me nite nite under my new bed and play-doh under my fingernails

Fire

It's where the ground is warm
where I'm kneeling. There's a doll on fire
and the ricochets don't muffle
the cries coming from the little girl.
Don't look at me like that. It wasn't me.

                      <>

It's when the smoke is so thick 
I can barely make out our picture 
on the dashboard.  The fire is enveloping fast, 
and I can finally throw you out 
of my life. The crackling sound 
is making it hard to concentrate and text. 
There is still time to apologize, daddy.
 
                      <>

It's how the flames from the fireplace leave
shadows on the bear rug, where a couple 
shares their first date. There is a clink
of wine glasses, and the lady's nipples
are hard and clearly visible, even
from the hall closet where you stand.

                      <>

It's why it's not the robes that drape me
that make me a monk, as I sit here
in the middle of the street. It's the strength
of my mind. As the orange fabric
turns to black, I will not move. 

                      <>
  
It's what tastes like cherries to help 
the pills go down.  In thirty minutes 
there may finally be order to my words. Or 
maybe not. Even blood burns, as it slowly leaves 
the veins, and spills onto the page.  
It's what scores the mark of the pen.  
Poems are used to being burnt paper.

teasingbrunette, you're the best. Thank you for dropping by!

ToKnowOrNotTo, I'm glad you enjoyed the piece. Thank you for your kind words

ArtGurl, we stem from the same branch with our love of the language of trees

Dear Envy

I hope to someday free my city
of girl gossip and politician speak.
So I spent the last year in the rainforest,
living in solitude in order to create a new
and perfect language, one where
you could communicate only by actions.
From my hammock, there's a river view
that parts the jungle like a boulevard.
In my dream, there's some sort of retaliation,
and pages from teen magazines
fall to the earth around me like leaves. This
language is a simple one, where
you could invite friendship with a flower
or fruit, entertain by assuming the shape
of animals, or where you could express love
by sacrificing your life for the comfort of others.
I was on the verge of something big,
and it was then I discovered
the language of trees.

JamieRawxx, I'm glad you enjoyed this one. Thank you for dropping by

meaning_life, thank you so much for your kind words, truly

Ainjel, my double thanks to you

teasingbrunette, thank you again for your continued support

Duck!

Spirit Guide
 
It happened to me again, when
a man handed me to a woman,
and I, in the form of a rose,
was placed between her breasts
that she proudly displayed, more
like a pair of aces at a poker table.
I can’t quite control these things, as I come
and go, since my life is small, like a drum beat,
or the flight of an arrow, or a puff of smoke
from a peace pipe. Once,
when I couldn’t find myself, I unrolled
in the rug of my ancestors,
fighting images of buffalos and bears,
days after construction began
at the casino. So I, a spirit guide,
summoned by this patron of all things,
set to deliver honey to her ears,
to sweeten the words of an old man
who had just lost his money. 
I can't quite control these things, 
as their emotions come and go, 
like a spin of a slot machine, or a blackjack, 
or a waitress.
So I turned to him, and with a pinch of his butt
sent him on his way, all senior shake and gait.
I am not bothered though, as others
will come as they always do, 
dressed in their social security checks. 
So let the old folk homes send their seniors,
and Hollywood try their rainmen. 
I'll linger between fingers wherever 
there's money. No longer will I connect you
with your animal totem. I am now
a spirit of loose spaces. 
 

Quan, I'm glad you found a part to enjoy. I thank you again for dropping by.

KC, thank you for the welcome, and for your kind words!

Simonedevidova, I do have a number of dark poems, probably too dark for a nice fluffy forum. =) I'm glad you found the piece interesting,


Duck!