Come join us!
Thank you Shay for another wonderful inspiring list!
Looking back, I realize, it all began in Autumn.
The goodbye that stung hard and cruel like a wasp in summer.
That is when I learned to smoke like a
man;
not pipes nor slims, but sadness.
It is a long harsh cigar, sadness.
It can leave a rasp on the throat and the heart.
Now I am certain, if my soul could sing, it would probably
sound like grackles,
loud and pestering
lacking in the
enchanting grace of doves and poppies that once filled those same lungs.
Silence has a scream that can never be quiet, and years of
that sound have a way of fraying the edges and making yellow what once was
white.
There is an empty chair inside me. It is mixed tweed and
always perfect with a scent of roses from another time. You only sit there when
I write poetry.
For regret has a way of holding on to the pain. It always
remembers, like the IRS, children, and my heart.
