5-7-5 Contemplation (III)

This trajectory
is awkward and out of joint;
feelings wash over me.

***

This feeling swells up
from my gut into the flesh
of my heart. Tears drop.

***

Pages stacked, one on
top of the other; a mere work.
A labor of love.

***

The window closes;
slow ascent. Then, opaque blockage.
Motion ceases; pause.

***

Sitting still, stuck with
wonder and confusion here.
I do not know…*sigh

***

Refresh, looks, searches…
Something new, something telling.
Effort returns void.

***

The ease at which the
words pour out in connected
thoughts…like I am home.

***

I cannot do this–
insurmountable demand.
Hear beat, warm feel; yields.

***

A soul knows a soul?
Unforgettable knowing…
A soul knows a soul.

***

Uneven terrain laid
out before my trepid steps.
Left foot, right foot; blind.

***

I’ve got this, I’ve got…
(I don’t know how to do this!)
…this, I’ve got this, I’ve got this.

5-7-5 Contemplation (II)

The damp remains here.
Memories swirl; images
retain what was there.

***

Unmistakable…
the air shifted, moved, split, and
transformed forever.

***

It was familiar,
a known yet unknown and known.
Time’s repetition.

***

Curves formed, eyes tracing–
soothing loveliness embraced…
soul remembering.

***

Unknowing cleavedness–
separate, emancipate–
deep impression left.

***

Smells, sounds, senses dance;
finger tips remember well
the now unknown known.

***

Seeking, searching…found;
Inside, outside, up and down found.
Sought, searched…can’t unfind.

***

Words like film play for
the eye of the mind–recall.
Can’t ever unsee them.

***

Thoughtless, pointless speech.
Words on my doorstep boxed neat.
Gift I’m forced to keep.

***

Careless utterance–
lacking any prethinking–
my kingdom leveled.

5-7-5 Contemplation

The eraser rubs,
and dark lines fade to nothing;
memory vanished.

***

Sound proof box holds tight;
Scream and shout but yet nothing.
Words fall to the ground.

***

Pieces on the board,
moved about quickly; costly.
A pawn moved aside.

***

Broom sweeps up the mess,
pieces and particles move;
nothing remains now.

***

The cord is pulled taut;
the bag is carried away.
No one knows to where.

***

recalibration.
compartmentalization.
depreciation.

***

Total attention.
One in a million: special.
Millions of one: common.

***

A mighty wave engulfs,
ensues, pursues, overtakes;
ebbing: abandons.

***

Terracotta pot
in hands sure and steady: safe;
in foolish: mere dust.

***

Tremors come first and
then the ground opens up and swallows.
Why did feet stand still?

***

Rocks misused and thrown–
smallest to biggest: brutal.
The collection grows.

Many Strands

My hair is long, curly, and thick.

I grab a curl, a lock, and

Twirl it around my finger.

There are many strands.

I feel its weight and density.

I wrap it around my finger a few times.

I pull it back a bit—to get a

Better look at the individual

Strands wrapped around

My finger—

“A part of me,” I think.

I pull the hair toward me,

And I sniff:

Residual Chanel #5 lingers,

It’s the end of the day.

The brown, black, red mingle

Twisted on my finger.

This hair has grown

On my head since the

Beginning. From the moment

I could grow hair.

The hair I touch, though trimmed

And cut over all these years,

Is part of the same hair

That was present when I was born;

One continuous stream of me.

The strands wrapped around

My finger…

Cause me pause.

I think for a moment.

I remember. I feel. I cry.

And the tears fall from my

Pressed lids

Passing through my eyelashes

Onto my cheeks—

The wet washes through

The light powder I just applied,

Dragging along the mascara,

Leaving a trace of black behind.

(I’d say there’s a “tear’s trace”

But that colloquialism is taxed.)

Reflexively, I pull my

My hand toward the rolling tear.

And it’s caught–

As was every tear

Prior to that one

In and by the strands of my hair

Twirled around my finger.

Every tear over these

Decades. Caught.

Caught and comforted

In the bed of my spindled hairs

Wrapped around my finger.

The individual strands of hair

Intertwined around my finger

Hold the turmoil and sorrow of

All the decades past.

The tears that have been

Shed, caught and absorbed

In the strands of my hair.

Each strand holds a key to

My life; each strand holds a

Secret worth keeping.

All of the strands intertwined

Together create a rich yet

Shallow resting ground for

The Pain and sorrow

That I’ve seen and known.

This hair, this beautiful

Hair has become the final

Resting place for so much

Sadness. Yet, all these strands

Have combined to form my

Story: the Good, Bad, and the Ugly.

My hair is long, curly, and thick.

There are many strands.

I grab a curl, a lock, and

Twirl it around my finger.