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  • litlover63 126w

    On the ward

    Something pretending to be light
    drizzles down, yellowly -- but
    It is not the illumination we seek
    to study the cave we are
    lost in.

    They feed us three times a day
    and we meet in the day room
    ( think Cosy meets Crazy)
    for lessons on pretending to be
    sane. White gauze wraps several
    wrists and a man who says he is
    in for a competency evaluation
    so the DA can proceed to his trial
    for murder --or not.

    This is no snake pit. There is no
    Nurse Ratchet. But still there is an
    actual black line you cannot cross
    to the locked door. You have been
    captured by the sane and they are
    changing you every night with their
    meds. Stilling the voices within.

    Who will you be by the last day?
    ©litlover63

  • litlover63 133w

    bury me

    with soft things
    With unblushing pretty things
    the charm of the small, preciously
    finite, say, one perfect seashell,
    curled like a baby's toes.

    bury me with things of great value
    and no meaning so that a panel
    of soon to be dead white men
    may convene a solemn, shuffling, coughing
    assembly to deconstruct these things
    to rust and dust more cunningly,
    with hidden flaws and cruel mazes.

    but I will stop my ears for
    I am long time buried with my
    soft and pretty things.
    if you should someday come
    and find me, bring sweets.
    ©litlover63

  • litlover63 143w

    Imagine?

    Sometimes I imagine
    giving the world's psychiatrists
    a great big hug and while I'm in close,
    stabbing them in the hearts
    37 times with one of their pretentious
    glass letter openers and burying them
    in their faux Japanese meditation gardens.
    Always wth love in my heart.
    And rainbows and butterflies.
    And fluffy bunny tails.

    If I didn't get by with it
    I could always write "poetry"
    in prison to spread good cheer
    to my fellow inmates
    who don't want it
    and would make short work
    of me, probably with very little
    love in their hearts so they'll
    burn in Hell forever, but this will give me
    no pleasure in my final moments.
    Maybe a bunny or two.
    ©litlover63

  • litlover63 150w

    Home Movies

    This is the part
    Where we embark
    - the inciting incident--
    that started it all,
    the misstep we took
    and did not see.

    And this is the scene
    Where the scales are ripped,
    ungently,from our eyes
    and we see where we went
    wrong.

    Here is the finale
    Where we pine
    For the blindness,
    As the unkind Light
    Breaks our hearts.
    ©litlover63

  • litlover63 154w

    @ mirakeeworld # writersnetwork

    Read More

    small print

    after the pain
    has washed you clean
    run toward Eden
    rejoicing
    you have just survived
    God.
    ©litlover63

  • litlover63 158w

    Beware: What you are about to Read is Not Fiction

    Later in life, we enacted a volatile
    tableau, circling each other, knives drawn,
    no hurtful thing left unsaid.

    ( but when I was a child she packed bananas and chocolate muffins
    and we watched the sun come up another day for being strong for me
    protecting me from him)

    She won the battles in her life by being the angriest
    person in the room; tried to spank me when I was 18.
    She threw a rice pot at me when I was 47.

    ( but when I was little I slept in her bed and she invented stories for me or
    stayed up late to watch the old movies she loved or look at the scrapbooks
    she tried to hang on to from one coast to the other looking for help for my
    father)

    When she was dying she told me I was a good daughter.
    I cling to that now and like an alchemist work try to
    separate the base metal of gratitude from the gold of
    Love.

    She deserves that much from me.
    ©litlover63

  • litlover63 161w

    Asides

    Wrinkles dimples warts
    and all hooded eyes should be
    ashamed
    More beautiful eyes ( without their
    hoods) and more beautiful faces
    are just a scalpel serum cream away.

    ( Can their be beauty? Where I
    have not been?) Deliver
    yourself to me. ( My summer house
    needs a new pool and my clients
    have ceased to be for ME.).

    By the way, spider venom
    Is the coming thing don't
    tell anyone
    ©litlover63

  • litlover63 174w

    And now for a Change of Pace

    Today,
    my heart I thought
    impervious,
    quivered and sang
    like a tuning fork struck
    lightly against a glass.

    Tomorrow,
    I will hear your voice
    for the final time
    and my heart,the same heart
    as yesterday, will bolt
    for the back door.

    Love is too much for me.
    ©litlover63

  • litlover63 175w

    Last Seen

    waiting on the corner
    for a bus.
    A large white car
    screeched to a halt
    and disgorged three burly polar bears.
    'You are the poet' they growled
    and not waiting for an answer,
    threw me in the back seat.
    Meekly, I said, 'I'm not a very good poet,
    really, 'I stink.'
    You'll do, they said.
    And I did. For four months or so
    I wrote my bad poems
    during the day and they
    collected them at night.
    Finally, they said, 'You have given voice
    to the plight of our people.
    You may go.'
    'Wouldn't you rather have a good poet
    for such an important cause,' I asked.
    'No,' they answered. 'If the poems are
    too good, who will believe they were written
    by polar bears?'
    They set me back at the bus stop
    and drove away. And that
    is why I have not posted
    for so long.
    ©litlover63

  • litlover63 186w

    Some Observations from the Oubliette

    I was born, no fuss, no muss.
    They had to make me cry.
    In school I flew under the radar.

    All this time, I have kept my head down,
    missing a score of eclipses.
    But you can't be too careful, they say.

    When Life came out to play,
    I collected coats at the door
    and went forth and back with
    party fare. I passed notes
    from the boys I liked to the
    girls that were not me.

    Now, night and day, I fade away
    my only hope that my soul may
    finally, actually, come to Be.
    ©litlover63