The curtain is closing
On future planning
The uncertainty of age
Is like a vulture
Waiting on a fence pole
I must deal
With life
In chapters
A book is too long
And I might not
Finish it
I look back
When time
Was a burden
When I thought
In years
Plotting goals
The calendar
Was my friend
Now I check
My watch
Realizing that
There are only
So many seconds left
Before my sun sets
Cards are like wings
Carrying the warm regards
From our heart
To those to whom
Other times
We keep our feelings
In reserve
It is in the Christmas season
That we yield
Allowing the emotions
To find their way
To the surface
Counting on Hallmark
To convey
What we cannot voice
But I balk
With the canned expressions
That do not speak
Of our true feeling
Of your importance
In our life
Of the good times
We shared
Of our wishes
That the future
Would provide more
Second helpings
Of life’s sweetest dessert
The circle narrows
Friends
Their faces light
When we come close
But there is distance now
A bond broken
A relationships severed
As the atom split
We were protons
Positive in our youth
Constantly in motion
With dreams
With ambition
And now neutrons
Complacent
Not reacting
To the thought
The behind the eye
Wish
That somehow
We could harness
The energy
Make that call
Arrange that meeting
Do that outing
But the bother
Has bearing
Too much effort
To disturb
The comfort of aloneness
I want to weave words
I want to create
My own patterns
To not drop stitches
As I lay out
The intricate colors
I see in my mind
I want others
To feel the ideas
The smoothness
Of my logic fabric
To accept the textures
As truth
Me, as an artist
Who pulls
The silky thoughts
From the cocoon
That is my heart
Christmas and heartbreak
Came in the
Same misery package
Our Christmas tree
Fresh from the spoil banks
Of the pit
Great gaps
Reminding us all
That like the tree
Much was missing
From the season
I heard the exciting talk
Of classmates
Dwellers
On the Sears catalogue
Dog-eared reminders
That jarred Santa’s attention
I knew
Santa had stopped
At each house
But mine
On the block
That on the 26th
New bikes
Would ride my street
Gene Autry cowboy suits
And cap guns
Made my friends
Gene’s posse
And I
Would have nothing
Nothing again
But the misery
That dogged
My parents
But the worst
Was yet to come
The first day
Of school
With the teacher
Spending the morning
Grilling each student
Each recounting
The joys
Under the tree
And I would lie
With everyone
Knowing the truth
And I would hate myself
For the lie
I felt
I had to tell
My princess
Wears no tiara
Has no entourage
But makes my home
A palace
Any conversation
Feels like a royal audience
It takes no camera
To capture
Her tender heart
Her warm smile
The joy
Of her sparkling eyes
She is true
Without pretense
Without complications
And she reigns
In my heart
We speak now only in italics
Passing each other throughout
the day a hundred times
The familiarity, the recognition in habit lies
there underneath as it echoes back to us
Our false tender mercies and shared memories
Not so clever distortions
Uncommon grounds
One of these days you will not
come home
And the cycle will begin anew
More at https://www.taralynnhawk.com/.
—–
Tara’s second book of poems, “Rhetorical Wanderlust” coming at the end of November. Her first, “The Dead”, is available on Smashwords.
Words like leaves
Drop in a pile
Of inconsequence
Shuffled aside
By faulty memories
Of relevance
Others clog the drains
With their hateful intent
Bunching
But not decomposing
They linger
Without letting
Things pass
Let my words
Be brilliant gold
Or flaming orange
Offering beauty
And a sense
Of well-being
And let them be
If only for a season
Worthy
Of the notice
I had no mask
As in so many times
I was forced
To improvise
I rubbed the soot
From the chimney
On my face and neck
Borrowing my father’s bib overalls
Pants that swallowed
My nine year old form
Rolling the legs up
In a giant cuff
I wrapped his shirt
Around my spare body
With his miner’s hat
I was ready
To join my friends
Heading away
From houses like mine
Houses where
There was no candy
This opportunity
Too important
To waste time
No general
Planned so carefully
Straight up Broadway
Where houses
Were well lit
Houses with hard candy
Small suckers
And an occasional Hershey bar
I hated apples
Or popcorn
Poured in my bag
I followed
A mental map
Plotted form past experience
Through the community
Until late
In the evening
Nearing ten
I made my way home
With the only
Store-bought sweets
I would see
Until Christmas
Mother scrubbed hard
On my face
The carbon
Not wanting to give way
Finally not satisfied
She allowed me
To go to bed
With the promise
Of a more dedicated
Assault on the black
The next morning
How the thought
Of the bounty
Kept me awake
As I lay
Beside my brother
Tomorrow would bring
Such sugar blessings
As I gorged
On my Halloween blessings
Like it or not I’m closing in on a BIG number this weekend
I still feel super young in the brain drain
Yet father time is doing the waltz with my mojo
Even # birthdays work better for me
This one however is odd
No, I’m not giving you the number
This punk is from New York City
My leather jacket might be retired
My cynical side though still intact
Translation : Do the math and pass the snakes
Ain’t drinking from a pint bottle in a paper bag yet
Gotta have something to look forward to
No speeches or homilies please
I can still bust you upside the head
Would rather buy you lunch though, maybe the early bird special