And the moon rose

over an empty field,

right in the middle of town...

To Breathe Again

                    I find myself

                clinging to him

                as tightly 

                as I held onto

                   that title of Widow.    

                            

               Instead of a

                suffocating quilt

                of fading memories

                wrapped around me,

                I am wrapped in 

                the arms of 

                him.

                   

               

Mmm

 

It’s not just that 

he pulled me

out of the 

Valley of Death,

it’s the 

Being So Alive

in this new life

he brought me to.

Freedom

He gave me the gift of freedom

and I ride that thing

like a rental horse

flying back to the stable.

I’m wild, but not reckless,

for I value the time I have left

in this body

on this pretty blue planet.

The smell of orange blossoms

is heavy in the air.

I breathe it all in

as if it were a drug.

And I’m gone,

baby, gone,

Like Tina Turner left Ike.

I think it’s time to admit

I’m deeply in love with my bike. 

The Lucky Ones

 

Here’s to the Lucky Ones,

the raw, the brutally honest ones,

the ones who crave the ******-*******,

Who rewrite language to

bat shit crazy and adore.

To the ones brought back to life

by the ones climbing out of the grave.

Who would have thought that

The Waiting for Death Ones

could be the

Ones Who Save.

The Wound Healers

 

We’re the same,

you and me

we’ve been broken

and stripped raw, 

we’ve been lost

and we’ve been found, 

yet still don’t know 

who we are.

We’ve both been in the battle,

we know the hidden scars,

the wounds no one can see.

we gently caress around them

to not open them needlessly.

when they do break down

we absorb the words

that must be said,

and pay honor to

the previous lives we led.

Being happy 

in the present

doesn’t change our past,

but baby, I’m sure grateful

that I got to have you last.

Winter in the Desert - Addendum

Just when I think

I'm grounded,

The slightest breeze

sends me tumbling

like a leaf

in the wind. 

Gravity is nonexistent,

reality is an illusion 

And there I am,

reaching for my past

of false security.

ADDENDUM:

Normally I leave interpretation of my writing open to the reader; however, I feel the need to explain this one a little bit.  This is NOT in reference to my "muse', the inspiration of my sultry poetry phase, a phase which I am ecstatically still in.

This poem is a reflection of very brief moments of free-falling as result of PTSD brought on by having a spouse go on Hospice and helping them transition into new life.  They occur infrequently now, as I live very much in The Now, but when they visit, sometimes the words just need to be said.

All is very well.

 

 Don't look back - you're not going that way.

*Mary Engelbreit

We're writing our story

right now,

Whether I pick up the pen or not.

Our story is written

in the silence

of entwined limbs,

synchronized breaths,

The before, the during,

and the after;

Our Dead People

turned to ash,

and yet,

we cling to life.

The Now.

 

Smooth Like Glass

Blue skies,

Smooth blue skies,

Smooth sailing.

We're as

smooth as wet grass,

smooth like the ice

floating in my glass

of bourbon.

Like the swirl of headiness

of one too many shots,

I never saw him coming.