Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear…

objects in the mirror are closer than they appear

it’s a warning

that things may not yet be
completely behind you.

it might appear
to you and to all who use convex mirrors

and a bit of smoke

that you are past all that.

beyond it.

moved on.

but it is always still
closer than it appears

it’s not that looking back is courageous
so much as not looking back is naive.
often reflecting back is
a prerequisite
to moving on.

Leaves Love

Something new, inspired by and dedicated to a very good friend. However, it will no doubt speak to anyone who has been there.p1015-19b

Leaves Love

Some day’s a wake; we reminisce.
So much at stake; to love like this.

Our sadness climbs; relentlessly.
From joyful times; oh, family tree.

A photograph; of rings gone by.
A tortured laugh; as we ask why.

The dinner’s set; an empty chair.
Our tears though wet; cannot repair.

This fucking life; it seems so wrong.
Where dirge is rite; and love the song.

If one could take such pain away.
Though hearts will break, we choose to stay.

In pain right now; intensely felt.
To honor bow; we tensely knelt.

Today our grief must own the day.
As fallen leaf returns to clay.

The one who leaves, knows only joy.
To love we cleave; learned as a boy.

Yea, one who’s gone knows perfect peace.
Who’s heart beats on; let love increase.
Whose heart beats on, let love increase.

You know how sometimes…

You know how
sometimes people
in our lives
with whom we’re not terribly close,
(which includes nearly everyone)
like work colleagues for instance,
will, quite inadvertently, say or do something
that must obviously be a personal trigger
instantly teleporting you back across time and space
into that room you’ve been running from
and trapped in your whole life
and your anxiety level skyrockets
but unfortunately and thankfully,
you’ve developed
the keen survivalist talent of hiding your fears
so well the trigger-happy,
soon-to-be ex-colleague/friend,
blissfully and unknowingly continues
dancing with stilettos on your heart,
believing you to be interested
because you are, actually, looking right at them
while looking right past them
while the psychologically bound Pavlovian dog
part of your psyche forever unfairly associates
the person’s face, voice, and scent
with that room
and everything in it you want
to keep getting away from
but the meeting isn’t nearly over,
the problem isn’t nearly solved,
the delivery to the client is looming,
and you catch not nearly enough words
to further any of these noble petty
causes, delaying escape
and lengthening exposure
radiating from otherwise good, rational people
who have their own damn shit and
with whom you have no desire to share any of this
so these people become rather impatient with you
for not hearing them,
causing the inevitable second wave
comprising the winning package of
guilt and shame and self-flagellation
because you fear it’s pretty much all about
that ugly part of you
that you keep putting back on
despite intellectually knowing that
the ugly is what was done
not who you are,
so you find new “friends”
to keep out
while they dance with stilettos on your heart?

Body. Mind. Heart. Soul.

Sometimes I think
I should have run away
Bodily, I mean

Bodily, at rest
Inertial fears press down
A broken peace
A drop in some lost whole

Conflicting memories race
Caging each and every thought
Long to erase the curse
Of a mind that will not forget

As burning red tears pump
Relentlessly throbbing
Within a boney tell-tale chest
A weakness I learned to despise

My soul, tormentor
Forced me to take no prisoners
And throw away the key
To any hope of escape.

I should have run away
Bodily, I mean



verb, to stir.
noun, a celebration, albeit painful

I love Mumford & Sons’ music.

(closely related poem: As Apathy Decays)

Poet Bob

When he sings: I’ve still got the scars that the sun didn’t heal, I hear this poetry loud and clear. What is written and what is heard are two entirely different things. I’m going with the poet on this one.

The Hurt’s Truth

On September 29th, 2009, I keyed in this stream-of-consciousness below. It has been laying dormant in my drafts folder ever since. It is the precursor to Rescue Me, posted on October 5th, 2009.

The Hurt’s Truth

I hear the truth hurts often cutting to the bone.
I hear the lie kills often choking out the soul.
And that’s the good news.
It seems a poor choice truth or lie.
Like would you rather be sunburned in a desert, naked, with no water or
Fall on a bee hive while bare foot in the briers?
Um, I’ll take door number three, Monte.
Should the game be Truth AND Consequences?
If I tell the truth, people may scream and cry.
And those I love might de-friend me and run.
And those I reach out to might ignore me and hide.

If I tell the lie we will laugh and cry.
Those I love will accept my friend request.
And the backyard bar-b-que will be great fun.

As a child, I learned to pretend.
It feels too good to risk the truth
I know each hug is rooted in lies.
I know in my mind but the heart…
ok I can fool my heart. He is a fool.
He will believe whatever I live.

I want the normal Rockwell painting.
so bad
I made it my minds mission
convincing my heart
we live in a Rockwell
my mind can be quite convincing

I lost my heart in a Rockwell
Its such a nice place to be…lost
So, of course, I died there.
Its ok. you would not have like me.
Not the me who I am,
The me that was.

Not quite there
the me that is I am
quite becoming

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