So Many Missing This Year

this christmas

holiday cheer, so elusive,
melts from branches high above me
slips through my cold, cupped, waiting hands

into gray puddles. intrusive
carols wrap their warped melodies
around my wintered wonderlands

hang your ornaments, light your trees
I can’t explain. grief understands.

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Writer or Witch?

A POCKET POEM

I’d like to write a rhyme today,
A uni-verse for us to share,
A simple poem that travels well.

I’ll write something sublime to say
How much I feel, how much I care,
Those secrets that I never tell.

So when you don’t have time to stay,
You’ll take me with you everywhere.
A pocket poem, this writer’s spell.

Maybe the Theater’s Empty

ANCIENT PRAYERS, YOUNG GODS

Will ancient prayers appease young gods?
Or should we write a modern verse?
Who answers when we sinners call
To ask forgiveness? Put on hold

Again while they wean out the frauds.
Recording plays: press one to curse
Your enemies. Press two for all
Requests. I wait while hell grows cold.

My line goes dead. What are the odds?
This life slips past from bad to worse.
Still drunk on last year’s alcohol,
I vow to win all they withhold.

I take the stage. No one applauds.
Tough audience. I’m unrehearsed.
I’ll stay, though, till the curtain falls,
Performing both to young and old,
To jaded gods who’ve seen it all,
My whispered lines a life prayed bold.

Who Am I in This?

A CROSSROADS IN SHADOW

What’s up ahead, there in the dark
Beyond those first smiles? Underneath
The shimmer hides the shiver, cold
As morning and just as fierce. I’ve
changed my mind; go on without me.

Let go before you leave a mark.
We made it this far. Lay a wreath,
So we’ll remember when we’re old,
And wander back here half alive,
Searching for a love that might be

Waiting still. A shadow love, stark
Naked in the glare, all claw and teeth.
A wild love, abandoned. Stories told
About what might have been will thrive
Untended, so go. We break free.

Whose Idea Was This?

THE GAME

Let’s play. I’ll start the game;
You join in when you dare.
We’ll take turns, if you want.
No rules, so we both win.

This way there’ll be no blame
When we forget to care,
To breathe, to eat. Don’t taunt
Us fools as we begin.

Someday I’ll learn your name.
We’ll meet. The when and where
A dice roll. Let luck flaunt
Her jewels. It’s love, not sin.

I’ll pray; you do the same.
The gods will keep things fair.
No spirits stay to haunt;
No ghouls let themselves in.

We’ll take turns, if you want.
No rules, so we both win.

Writers Write, and So Am I

My first NaNoWriMo was an epic failure. I flamed out after a week, not even reaching 5000 words. So, what happened? I was going to catalog my excuses, but why try to justify it? The simple truth is that my passion wasn’t greater than my circumstances. And while it’s true that the month took an unexpected turn that demanded a lot of my time, in the time I had left, I chose not to write. I watched TV instead, letting other people’s stories fill my head, listening to their characters ramble. After that first week, I chose passive consumption over active creation. Either state can take me out of myself. I opted for the easy one. No excuses.

So, what now? Last night, when I decided that I’d write and post something this morning, I thought that a good idea might be to pick up where I left off last summer and finish out the year with one last poetry form. I haven’t decided yet whether to keep going with the rimas dissolutas or to choose a new form. I’m leaning toward the former, since I wrote so little in June. Can I go back to writing for my own amusement? Will it feel good to be creating something every day? Have I come far enough on this journey to accept that I am a writer, whether or not anyone ever reads a word, or offers support, or pretends to care? I have written. I do write. I am writing. I am.