We reached the open water at dusk.
Marsh-ringed and pewter.
From behind the low clouds
descended annunciate
all the people we used to be.
“We shall go,” they sang, “into the dark water
and wash away all the ugly things written
on our bodies.”
-Copyright Kay Winter
A hurricane has taken you
I see, but I’m certain it’s not just me.
and I know nothing
of how it came to be
or how to clean it up
Yet here I sit
Hoping
Somehow
my unsaid will
My agnostic prayer
the superstition
in the savior complex of my own psyche
Could somehow send disaster relief
Hoping
somehow
you see this tattered piece of a poem
Swift onto the shoreline
Take it as a sign
ask for help
call for assistance
Lay the foundation
you think was rubble
And then, maybe, you would see
That you were being seen.
The void wasn’t there.
She searched.
Her head. Not there.
Her nerves. Not there.
Her self. Not there.
She searched,
Looked,
Felt
For the barren
Or anguish
Pain
Uncertainty
Incompleteness
Those toxic thoughts
Those dependable constants
So often lingering in her mind.
Certainly, there was always a void.
Something missing.
Not enough. Something. Someone. Herself.
And so she waited, expected.
But on this peculiarly unpeculiar regular day
This mundanely interesting period of her life
She felt no void.
Just warmth
Gratitude
Confidence
Her own happy wrinkles
Friends
Her friends
Art
A cat’s meow
Warm cushiony seats
A pen in hand
Waiting, expecting empty
But instead feeling full.
Most often it is not love, but this:
A long spring in a strange place
Watching a distant figure from a window.
Most often it is not love, but this:
A spiral where the spine would be
Promises that smell like August rain
The shadows of trees on calm water.
Copyright Kay Winter
(The flirtatious soft pillow whispers)
The cacophony of fuzzy beeps bicker.
(The blankets embrace you provocatively)
The cold air flicks your ear disapprovingly.
(Flannel tickles your legs in the dark, taunting)
Sunlight spies from the window, judging.
(Gravity seduces, parenthetical, unwavering)
The beep resurrects, outspoken, reproachful.
(Primal)
Responsibility.
(10 succulent minutes)
Sit up.
When I was a child
Life was different
Worries were different
I roamed the neighborhood with freedom
But
Had little control of my life
As an adult
I still roam my neighborhood with freedom
My neighborhood is much larger
But I still have little control of my life
Sure
There is some illusion of control
But the big things
Seem to happen
No matter what
Tornados hit
Loved ones die
Floods come
Fires happen
People steal your money
You have no control of those things
But one thing
One thing I can control
Is my happiness
I can choose
How to perceive the World
My World
I can hate
Feel despair
Feel alone
Want
Complain
Find anger
Or
I can choose
To find happiness
To find love
To find compassion
To be at peace
To be like the child I was
And enjoy this life
Enjoy being alive
No matter what
Copyright Don MacLeod
You there.
Me here.
Look up.
Eye to eye.
Let the muscles turn as they may.
Facial recognition
Familiarity
Beyond that
What is?
Me here.
You over there.
Hey.
How are you?
And don’t say fine.
I know you lie.
I’m here.
I exist.
It’s the Midwest.
The proper response is: “Fine.”
But what is fine?
It’s so nondescript.
I only know fine as a derogatory
She’s fine.
Her body is fine.
You are fiiiine.
Fine wine
Fine hair
She is fine
Fine. Object.
I’m fine.
Well maybe.
Just my body though.
I am fiiiiiine.
My glass of wine.
My hair.
I am fine.
Fine. Object.
But if you ask
I’m just too busy to…
(See, that’s already a lie
Busy is a myth
There is plenty of time
Busy is as worthless as fine
A cop out to avoid connection)
But if you ask
I don’t have the trust
That you will listen
Not judge
And want to hear something
Anything
Other
than ”fine”.
