In a quirky kind of way you say. In the
Non traditional sense. You are pretty.

Not beautiful.

My long brown hair that seems too
Stringy most days. It has no volume.
It can’t even decide what color it is
To be. My long brown/reddish hair
That looks blonde in the summer.

Two blue eyes. Blue eyes that many
Men have sung about. Not sky blue.
Not crystal like. Just dark blue eyes.

Lips you never saw. Lips other men
Have fallen over. Lips you don’t want.

Freckle covered shoulders. That shake
Uncontrollably when I cry. You made
Me cry when you said goodbye. My
Freckle covered shoulders wept.

Hips, that in the end you made me
Feel guilty for having. Hips that
Are curvy, hips I hate, but you
Should have loved…adored.

Legs that walked a thousand and
One miles for you. Legs that I
Wrapped around you countless
Times.

But you don’t think I’m
Beautiful.

Not beautiful you said.
You never said beautiful.

but you never knew,
i couldn’t give us a
chance to be

and so i could blame
you when our
stage death finally
fell

i blamed you for
every sadness
and every battle
scar

but the truth is baby,
I killed us

i was so afraid of
the pain
that might come
that i killed us

and hurt myself
before
you.
could hurt.
me.

A Shell Man

A respected man
worthy of honor.
The people flock
to his guidance.

A wise man
with little experience.
He tries admirably
to make progress.

A tired man
worked without merit.
They mistreat him
forgetting his contributions.

A resistant man
who doesn’t stop.
He believes truth
overcomes all disbelief.

A proud man
left all alone.
They stifled hope
and brought doubt.

A sad man
who lost respect.
He seems different
sad and empty.

in an empty room
cross legged on the
floor.

a half smoked
cigarette hanging
limply from your
pursed lips.

your hands holding
loose leaf papers
that are filled
with scribbles and
scratches declaring
the delicious workings
or your mind.

your brow furrowed
in thought over
which one to show
me, what thought
will you share?

and so i sit in front
of you on that
bare floor, knee to
knee, waiting
expectantly for your
choice.

you don’t look at
me, you see only
the writing on the
pages, but i see
you, thinking and i
wonder how you’ll
choose.

i see you, i see
you for the first time
vulnerable and sad.
but i’m not leaving,
i cross
the divide of apprehension,
circumstance, and
anxiety that
has separated us,
and i touch your
cheek, trace your
lips with my
finger tip.

and then
the papers fall from your hands
as you pull my
face to yours
and i know

you are mine.

**I changed the ending of this poem as I was posting it to the blog. Originally I ended it with “there will be a tomorrow” instead of “you are mine”. As soon as I had written the original beginning, I immediately thought of it was super cheesy, and it always bothered me. I think the new ending is more fitting for the feeling behind the poem anyway…especially looking back on it…and on the person that inspired it.**

I remember riding with dad
him preaching me singing,
we were a duo.
They called on a Wednesday
and we drove there
on Sunday. Pews filled
with anxious faces and
thirsty minds. A flock
willing to listen and
ready to grow. They
met on a Sunday afternoon
and told us he had the job
on a Monday morning.

I remember walking
outside before a service
the parking lot full of cars.
Inside, they shook hands
and smiled at each other offering
warm greetings and rosey
thoughts. He preached for
hours relating the burdens
of his heart and imparting
wisdom beyond his forty years.
A young man they said,
with new and fresh ideas.
They welcomed the change
and blossomed under
his leadership.

I remember the slow turn
from happy, content members
to spiteful backstabbers who
found everything dad did
wrong. They criticized the way
he talked and found fault
in everything he said. They
didn’t know him they way
I did. He wouldn’t do what
they wanted, he only wanted
to follow the divine guidance
bestowed upon him. He only
wanted to make a difference.

I remember dad reading
the nasty letters signed,
concerned christians.
They were filled with unfounded
complaints and ridiculous
accusations. He was called
a male chauvinist, wife beater,
and alcoholic. A small church
with archaic traditions and
backwood ideas. They
couldn’t let go of their
power or see beyond their
own desires and selfish
demands.

I remember leaving on a
bright Sunday morning
the fake tears rolling down their
faces. Many handshakes,
‘heart’ felt hugs, and passionate
sobs echoed behind our
departure. We physically
left that place but the emotions
remain. Rage and hatred
for liars and hypocritical
people still linger. I’ll
always remember that place
in a small town, nestled
within a desolate hill on a
Sunday

until you believe it

until i believe it

i imagine there are not enough minutes

in a day

in a year

in our lifetime

let’s just say goodbye, baby, before

we waste anymore time

love is not a profession

genteel or otherwise

sex is not denistry

the slick filling of aches and cavities

sex is the way you treat me

the lack of emotion and lust

you are not my doctor

you are not my cure

you are my heartache

you are my downfall

nobody has that power,

you are merely a fellow/traveller

give up this medical concern,

buttoned, attentive

it is fake thoughts of care,

kindness unfounded and unrealistic

permit yourself anger

and permit me mine

dark.ugly.beautiful eyes:

watching the world roll by

from beneath heavy

lashes laden with

bold/black/hardened/liquid

dreams

and sparkly bright

studs proclaiming desperate

sunshine promises

that float away like the

smooth milky white smoke

lifting away from

the end                       of

her cigarette