thoughts scattered across my desk from the last week.....

tattered words and notes from the last week.


The afternoon dawdles in an anxiety
to rival my own.
The afternoon waits for the darkness and
I wait for the elusive light.

The afternoon flows on a shivering breeze as she whispers the seasons change.
I feel my own season change. Like the colorful leaves in the annual death cycle
of the tree, I too show signs.
The color fades from my hair to reveal the whiteness, The color of age.
I stand in the breeze and let it wash over me in a place that I don't know.


The afternoon subltly hints at rebirth and spring
and I am deluded in my own damp earth toned Autumn.

I have collected yet another scar to
save in a jar.
I put it in the kitchen window
to trap the sunbeams that force thier way in.
There is no denying the light.


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Everything was troubled for so long that I had almost forgotton what was good....
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sat. early march
Izzy:
Q "Should Daddy let Mommy come home if she changes her mind about living with Dave?"
A" No Daddy, Mommy has made too many mistakes and she doesn't listen to you. I want to live with you".

"What Dave did is bad, He was supposed to be your friend.You, Me and Mommy were supposed to be a family, Not Dave and Mommy".
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Turn the other cheek?
How about if I just turn my back.
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How many times can I wreck this train
back it up and do it again..
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starting over and picking up the pieces
broken china
and
broken hearts
spill from the empty packing boxes
on the dirty kitchern floor.
friend,
lover and
self clash in a mired merry-go-round.
which kiss was the kiss of judas?
which one whispered lies ?
and which one hurt?
the entire past converged to the crux of the
here and now.
molten brass formed the ring
as the sculptor toiled for stolen love
delicate fingers grasp the ring in searing pain
that coursed through the veins of all three.
the self was wounded
though not mortally
for he had the true prize.
the pure love of a child.
the sculptor was left to nurse his conscious and ponder his loss
as he was caressed by the delicate burning fingers
that grasped the molton brass ring
searing him with its insatiable void.