Post-Election Poem
Being good and being nice are not the same.
One enacts and pursues, the other performs.
Being a peacemaker and being a peacekeeper are not the same.
One stirs up and creates, the other lies still.
Who is it that you think you are?
Whole (a poem)
WHOLE
You don’t have to return
to the hands that broke your bones
or to the words that manipulated your mind
to fear for your next breath
or to the people who dripped poison
to rot your heart.
You don’t have to make nice
or pay your respects
or explain yourself
or justify your existence
or reconcile
to be whole.
If you love your body,
mind, and heart
the way they didn’t
then your soul is whole
in and of itself.
Footprints (A poem)
My poem entitled, “Frame” appears in this anthology by Bards Against Hunger. Proceeds got to local food banks! This week I have another horror poem for you to enjoy. https://www.bardsagainsthunger.com/bards-against-hunger-nc-preorders1.html?fbclid=IwAR16MDOHNzaaMefihJEojbeYcMplVblW8-6pmJcnOMTF2lmEYP-6Ma0Q7Y8
FOOTPRINTS
Early this morning after a troubled sleep,
Through my blurry eyes
I thought I saw footprints coming down my driveway
And stopping at the porch.
I rubbed away the gunk,
Clearing up my vision,
And the footprints were gone.
Even earlier this morning
I got out of bed
Giving up on trying to get anymore sleep,
And I opened the door
To the sunrise revealing footprints
Leading up my porch
And stopping at the front door.
When I stepped out to examine them
They faded away.
Early this morning,
While it was still dark
And the birds were yet to awaken and sing,
I thought I heard footsteps
Just outside of my room.
I sat bolt upright,
Slid silently out of bed,
And got down on all fours to peek
Under the crack of my door.
Footprints.
I yanked open the door,
And they had vanished.
Early this morning
In the wee hours,
After no sleep at all,
I heard slow creaking footsteps inside my room.
I slowly turned my head across my pillow
To see the moonlight illuminate
The footprints that stopped
Directly beside my head.
These footprints were not disappearing.
Hanging Painting (A poem)
I write a wide variety of poetry. I have written love poetry and haikus, but those are rare. Often I work out my painful experiences through poetry, or confusing and frustrating thoughts. Nature is a big inspiration for me. But then there are my favorites: I love fantasy, and I love horror. This poem is a horror-inspired piece.
HANGING PAINTING
Don’t look now,
But that painting is staring right at you.
I know what you’re thinking,
Isn’t that what paintings do,
Stare?
In one fixed direction, yes.
But that menacing glare has tracked
Every footstep you’ve taken
Around this room.
That enraged face
With bared teeth
And deeply etched brow
Has only intensified
From the moment you’ve walked in.
No, don’t look!
That’s what he wants.
If you give him your attention
You’ll be giving him life,
And then who knows what he is capable of.
Wait, who locked the door?
I didn’t.
Did you?
