A story on a blank page
one page as blank as the last.
A few words only,
“last night the lights”
and a sketch of a bridge.
Skip the usual turn
and travel into the darkness
one darkness as dark as the last.
A few stars only
above the treeline.
Keep to the the right of the cemetery
until you find the bridge
where the sun will rise
in May over the lilacs
and the pale new leaves
of the willow
are green and bending.
Copyright Kay Winter
We weep in the darkness
Believing in our aloneness
We feel the pull
The call
To the dark
Not knowing
The light is just underneath
Also
Beaconing to us
Waiting to embrace us
To brush away our tears
To let us know
We aren’t alone
Asking us
To open our eyes
And see
See the beauty that lies in our heart
Even if it seems so broken
So unfixable
There is beauty still
There is love
There is joy
No matter how torn
No matter how shattered it may seem
The light
The love
Are always there
Copyright Don MacLeod
I write the same two poems
over and over.
One is called
“I’m in Love.”
The other is called
“I Hate Myself.”
They take turns,
rotate,
in my head and heart,
by the season,
or the weekend,
or from one moment
to the next.
Sunrise.
Sunset.
I’m sick of myself
and
I love you.
It eats me up from the inside out.
It burns a hole in my stomach and
leaks poison into my bloodstream.
It boils and distills in my brain,
becomes a potent and powerful wave.
It absorbs the good energy and
burns it black,
a big bang in my heart.
Do you have one of these?
Doesn’t everyone?
In the mirror I see a man
I ask who is this man
But I know
I know this man very well
But I don’t
He is new to me
As he is every day
He changes
He never is the same
New thoughts change him
Old thoughts leave him
And change him
His heart is broken one day
And full the next
Or broken one hour
And full the next
There is always joy
Always
A freedom I don’t see very often
I like this person
And I feel for him as well
Love has not escaped him
It’s there in his face
Laughter has also been a good friend
It too sits there
I never know who I will see
When I look in the mirror
copyright Don MacLeod
Today feels like the end of the world, so
I’m pretending that I’m high.
It’s easier that way.
I refuse reality. I will not play along.
The boulevard is smeared with piles of Oreo ice cream.
A river flows on the edge of the street and
10 year old boys race popsicle sticks.
My dad’s truck splashes by, almost hits us.
My dad doesn’t wave because
there’s work to be done.
There’s always something to do,
even while the world is dying.
Writing a poem
is exactly
like taking a shit.
You’ll just be sitting there,
working or
watching TV,
reading, whatever,
and suddenly,
it takes you over.
It becomes
the most important thing.
It is urgent.
Get it out, or
face the consequences.
