Funeral

To the young amongst me, I hope you are at my funeral

That is to say, I hope you outlive me and that I am worthy of being missed

I haven’t been a saint at all times but I was able to rein in my crazy before committing too heinous a crime

When homicidal or suicidal thoughts drop by to visit, I teach them how to meditate

I’ve solved problems creatively, which is to say, illegally

For the record, if I had a written record of my life I would burn it in order to boil a pot of tears for tea

I like a little salt on my sweet

Paintbrush

You appeared out of the haze

With your calming presence and all the colors I’d never seen that you shared with the people in your life and those in strife

You opened my eyes, caught my eye with your constant creation of beauty

It brought me joy to know that you were out there painting your rainbow

I thought that I could be your pot of gold and you might want to grow old

On sunny days we’d play outside, on rainy days we’d hide in a world all our own

I’d built a fort with you, cook you a pot of stew

I’d read to you at night

If that’s what you were into

But if you would rather not, that’s fine

I know I’ve broken a heart or two

I’d hate to do that to you

It’s not my intention

But you caught my attention

Honey, let me know which way your wind is blowing

We can ride the seasons

Spring or snow, I’d like to know if you will be in my life to share a cup of tea

So let’s take a sip and take a dip

The sun is high in the sky

I feel like I could fly

Like your paintbrush, without limits

Thank you for inspiring this song, I could sing it all day long

But I tell myself I’m too busy, I make myself dizzy

When I simmer down, I hope you’re next to me on the ground

I’ll paint a picture of what I want my life to be

How sweet it would have been to let this poem end on the naive note of my initial school-girl crush that was later crushed by your true colors. I find old poems like time capsules and marvel at how much has changed.

You probably didn’t realize what a huge trauma trigger your words of shame and smacks of cruel violence would be for me. I don’t know who gets off on receiving that but I know it isn’t me. I summed it up in the poem I wrote on the way to visit you about escaping a predator like my body knew long before your actions rang true. The picture of my ideal life no longer includes you.

Fleeting

Where do ideas come from?
When I get inspired it feels like an itch
Irresistible to scratch but if I don’t promptly act…

Where do ideas go?
Sometimes I get a flash of what appear to be                                                                 profound, brilliant, and wildly creative thoughts                                                                       Just as quickly,  they vanish into thin air
Faster than ice evaporates on a hot day                                                                                 Before I can write them down, they’ve already gone on their way

My brain is beaten down by sleep deprivation and stress
So it makes sense
That it would hold thoughts
As efficiently as a sieve holds water

Still I wonder
Where do ideas come from,
And where do they go?
As they disappear through the door of my conscious mind,
I want to say to them, ‘Thank you, come again’