picking carefully each step through prickly needles
you’ve walked this path before
the fear now has a different taste
more coffee than rye
there are a few on the edge of the wood
offering platitudes
filling an empty space falsely
there are memories that may not be real
but imagined daydreams
to help make sense of the words
there are living scars
that scream with each step
but you can’t be still
you’ve uncovered this path for yourself
now keep going
Torn
Torn apart on the bleakest day
I’m scattered to the winds
Like dandelion wisps
Across skies and fields
Pushed beyond my ken
I long to rest my weary head
Halt my frantic pace
To plant my feet
Unfurl some roots
To just sit still and breathe
When the pieces are picked up
And I’m pulled together again
Who will it be
How will they see
And will they want me still
Rushing through
Broken and cracked
Tired and spent
Senses stripped
This is how I am
Torn apart again and again
The barrage never ends
Don’t discount me
Don’t forget me
I’ll keep my words in the wind
please
don’t silence me
please
it’s taken so long
to find the right words
they must come out
or I will fade back away
from all that’s good and light
Autumn Chill
will there ever be a day when he won’t be like a sliver under my skin
or will I always carry the painful burr
a reminder of the finer times
when fun was important
learning was exciting
every place was exotic
sleep was a luxury
the way he whispered my name felt like spring rain
the way he laughed felt like summer sun
I’m on the verge of autumn
and it hurts like a chill to the bone
Dreaming Awake
another little piece of me is gone
surrendered to time
when I was asleep, I was six again
with the world a bright, sunshiny place
when poetry met me in a field near the school
but when I awoke
it was so dark in my room
no stars or moon
and I was old, beyond my own reckoning
but I still had words
to describe and comfort
so when I fell asleep again I was seventeen
on the cusp of a bigger world
with more people and places
and words faded as I soaked in the city
when I turned around I was twenty-eight
with my own walls closing me in
there were few words as I made a family
but again at thirty-nine the words bowled me over
as I saw a field like when I was six
I began to write
hoping to capture the feelings
so when I’m ninety-nine I’ll remember
my dreams when I’m awake
The Word Rummager 