There is a piece I've longed to share,
which, up 'til now, I wouldn't dare,
where courage pushes fear aside
and shackles up my foolish pride...
To put to words, as much for me,
affection in simplicity,
and say those things I wished I could...
that chance may now be gone for good.
I near succumbed to COVID's wrath;
now, barricades deny clear path -
a bottleneck for oxygen.
So much to tell; where to begin?
A battle raged; a drawn-out war
that ended with a winning score:
I pulled ahead - a blessed reprieve;
the reaper's gone; yet, still, I grieve.
For scars remain; we coexist.
Not given up; I will persist,
but dreams? There was one 'mong the few:
to hold you close and sing for you...
A tune that melds our hearts together,
and keeps us warm through stormy weather,
a lullaby to ease all fear
and let you know how much I care.
But vocals won't cooperate;
on ev'ry nerve the raucous grates.
Those singing days are done, it seems;
some visions, sadly, dwell in dreams.
If fate insists that I must wait,
this voice will ring at Heaven's gate!
So, pardon, if I'm way off-tune;
at least, at last, Love will shine through!!
Jodie
5/23/25
The city exhales steam like a tired beast,
its breath pooling in alleyways
where no one walks anymore.
Cold, wet cobblestones gleam
like the backs of forgotten coins,
each one holding a secret
you must step lightly not to disturb.
Streetlamps blink like they’re remembering
how to dream—
orange halos shivering on the slick asphalt,
casting shadows
with no one to belong to.
Shop windows sleep behind
grimy glass and rolled-down gates,
whispering to each other
in the hush of the sodium dark.
Rain slicks the world into a mirror
and I walk through it—
a ripple in the ghost of a market square,
where footsteps echo
as if they're unsure
whether they’re mine or someone else's
long gone.
Neon signs flicker with old jazz—
an inaudible tune,
all hush and blue
and the smell of wet iron
lingering like a lover's forgotten scarf.
I am alone, but the night is not empty.
It is full of watching things—
brick mouths and sewer grates,
broken clocks stuck at almost midnight,
windows that sigh when no one’s listening.
The city speaks its truest voice
only when no one asks.
Streetlight dander. Jawbone asphalt.
Blink razors carve her iris script.
Rib stars ovulate in feral grates,
mechanical tongue juts a bloodline breath.
Keystroke ruin writes in collapse,
a waveform lodged in sternum glass.
Lipsticked rodeo—a gash in faded denim
Banana-knuckled hands torch filterless ghosts.
Tree-call through copper root systems.
Wire-pluck storm,
vapor chews the stock market
Cancer caught in molar hush,
brined in citrine static.
She opens her throat like a coin purse.
Spine bows in semaphore.
We dismount the edge—
An incisor cusp,
the confession still blistering
beneath the flesh of no language.
(The Hollow City Cycle include:
The Hollow City
I Remember You -- the city speaks
Last One Left)
You left me when the lights flickered
and the water turned bitter.
When the sky coughed ash
and the birds stopped singing.
You ran.
All of you.
As if I hadn’t held your every heartbeat
in the bricks of my spine.
I fed your dreams--
from paper boys to prophets.
I kept your secrets
in sewer grates and sun-warmed benches.
I lit your windows,
caught your tears,
sheltered your sins.
And now--
the vines know my name.
The weeds whisper lullabies
where children once screamed.
The wind is my voice,
and it remembers.
Don’t come back
to grieve what you abandoned.
I have roots now.
And bones.
Saturn's rings mystify me indeed-
all seem bound with no purpose or need.
Spinning boulders and ice-
pictures of them add spice.
In the end, where will good answers lead?
But, last night I woke up from strange dreams;
found I landed by way of moonbeams!
To my greatest surprise
right in front of my eyes-
Large space monsters fast led to my screams!
The group traveled on magical skates
fixed beneath monster dumpsters with grates-
which then opened to spread
the trapped boulders instead
of them roaming around with bad fates.
They sprawled tons of old space-filled debris,
and I gathered from what I could see,
kept those rings plumped up well;
captured for a long spell
eased collisions in our Galaxy!
Now, I know that these facts aren't true
cause that's not how those circles accrue!
Magnetism makes rings
space debris to them clings!
So, this theme earned my fun poet's view!
By barren sands, the weary streets do sprawl,
Where voices rattle in the iron dusk,
And hollow laughter rises, wan and thin.
The city groans beneath a leaden sky,
Where smoke and sorrow mingle, thick and gray,
A wasteland woven close with wire and sin.
We shuffle on, led by the shuffling feet,
The broken rhythm of the heartless heart,
As neon blinks and chokes with dying light.
Desire whispers in the crowded dark,
Promises drift in currents cold and stale,
And hope clings tight to shadows out of sight.
Here memory fades like water down the drain,
Filtered through grates of time and rusted hate.
The children play, the elders stare, alone,
Each captive in a glassy cage of bones.
Yet still, I trace faint roots of hidden springs,
In ruins, soft as moths, a life begins.
A FAIR PAIR
Willy the worm would want to wiggle
Just a joke joining in with joyful jiggle
Gaity I guess, giving guffaw or giggle
Delighted to dig and dive down deep
Why one would wish to walk or weep
Continually checking, caution to keep
As surface security seldom seems safe
Worried to wander as a whining waif
Choices change, yet chancing to chafe
Stop being silly, Sam Snail softly said
I’m slimy and I slither slowly instead
However heavy to hold I have a head
No shame sheltering in a shiny shell
I’ll try to tempt you with tales to tell
Quiet questioning quite easy to quell
My mistake made if I’m mild or meek
Supposing no special space to speak
Being breakfast in a blackbird’s beak
None need know any new unknowns
Both born blind, bare with no bones
Grudgingly, grinds grates and groans
Great, gradually going underground
So silent, simply still sensing no sound
Finer feelings of fairness finally found
Basically being what a bare belly begs
Dripping not drowning, draining dregs
Laughing’s allowed, even lacking legs
With wings of golden starlight your spirits flare
Each woman burst forth a steadfast astral pyre
Your valiant souls are / defying / confining
the tethered snare
Like distant suns that are piercing the boundless mire
With hearts unyielding you are shatter iron grates
Your unshackled wings where shadows once confined
And in your touch,
love's caresses, gentle graces
A serenade of voices, together
softly intertwined.
Through time's grand halls your histories reside
Your footprints pressing...
on ever-shifting sands
With every single verse
a truth you cannot hide
For you mend the world with...
steady guiding hands
O gracious women, blessed with beauty /
fierce and bold.
In every realm
your being we cherish
and behold.
-----
“No matter how tired you are, no matter how physically exhausting this work may be, it's beautiful to bring a smile into someone's life, to care for someone in need. What greater joy can there be?” Mother Teresa
"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will." - Charlotte Brontë
Gorillas grow growly gruffy grouchy grampas
Giving grateful gremlins grassy growth plates
Glassy glistening glowing glaring glimmers of globes
Groovy grizzly gristleworms gracefully grifting grandmas
Grandiose grimlets grabbing growling gracious grates.
I like the old buildings,
the weathered brick,
the worn down doorsteps sanded
by a century of shuffling feet,
the musty smells from
old bond stores and hotel
cellars wafting up through
grates along the street.
I like the defiance
of the old façades,
how they hang on
beneath layers of gaudy paint,
the names and dates
embossed on buildings
refusing to be rubbed out,
the held dignity of a stone wall,
desecrated by graffiti
yet still standing straight.
I like the late night
peace and quiet
that settles along the lanes
and back streets
of the old port,
places only the locals know,
home to the ghosts
of washed-up sailors
and the lost souls
who have nowhere
else to go.
The jocular hilarity
of the holiday festivities
grates me raw.
I can't help it
the merrier everyone gets
the more sad I feel.
I know I am not right, never have been.
I paint a stiff smile on my face,
it usually lasts
into the New Year, but by then
it's a more a grimace.
There are more like me
we're not Grinch's,
not haters, we just have this
desire to be normal
but we've not figured out
'normal' yet
and it makes us sad
to be here
slowly turning this way and that
like a half-drowned log
in this sparkling river of joy
that most everyone else rides upon.
Does Dedra look strange to you? I asked her cousin.
No more than usual; he replied. She’s crazy as a dozen.
A dozen hyenas? A dozen cats? A dozen fleas?
Don’t ask me, he said. She’s always been a tease.
Look at her costume, I pleaded and implored.
She’s truly something else, so strange-adored.
It is called Halloween, it’s what we have in the states.
I thought that it must be odd; her face had grates.
It’s a mask, he told me. Don’t worry a bit.
She’ll dress in rags and have an all-out fit.
It’s what we do in October on Halloween.
So, I decided to believe her cousin, Dean.
Subtle, tingling, blissful caress
Wholeness of being, free from stress
Essence of presence celebrates
Each node within, Cupid’s address
Magnetic heat, pheromones grates
To music of spheres, soul gyrates
Bliss elixir suffuses form
Soma nectar drips through love’s straits
Mists divine are both cool and warm
Magical is, this benign storm
The false drops away, truth is known
Rapture unbound, is the new norm
Bliss and wisdom, that’s ours to own
Borne of love and light, is home grown
Within our heart, is God’s heaven
Yet each must enter there alone
05-September-2022
And where to go now ?.
The wall that has kept back
silence is beginning to dissolve
and already that vast ocean
of nothingness is slowly seeping
into what holds you together.
You could always wander back
to those alleyways
where bond stores wafted
musty smells up through grates
that you walked past
on your way to school,
or find a seat there
in the acrid air of St Mary's
as incense carried hymns
up to the slaughter houses
of the Lord. All nothing more,
now, than exhibits
in a museum of what each sense
has put away to adorn
some theme or narrative.
And then there is here,
whose borders blur
and morph into gateways,
all promising a view.
Take one to somewhere.
The fiery sunset giving
praise to the glory
of a star, the rapture of oceans,
and the flight of a wedgetail
riding high over a world
waiting like a lover.
I serenade my wife each night
With songs both old and new
To show how much I love her
It just seems the thing to do
But she is not enamoured
To hear my dulcet tones
She says it's just annoying
And it grates upon her bones
She says “just you keep quiet,
And I'll tell you this for free
If you don't stop your racket
You'll get nothing for your tea”
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