The fruit on the blackberry bush are shriveled and black.
The gravel driveway has washed-away and then there is you.
The gutters are clogged and falling-off the roof,
Due to the weight of neglect, and then there is you.
There are a few broken panes that we covered with cardboard,
To keep out the draft. And then there is me,
Going over the bills at midnight while you are asleep.
There is the two of us clinging to each other to conserve heat.
The beer bottles are piled-up around the kitchen sink.
The screen doors are torn to shreds and wasting away.
The crystal meth is apparent on our face,
And there is no escaping the obvious truth of you and me.
All the apples have fallen and the deer are having a feast,
While Sonoma County Sheriff knock and grind their teeth.
abandoned house by arphot.diviantart.com
Letter to Ex
There are no more walls in my house.
I hang my pictures on the air.
My carpet is made of grass and moss.
My bed is the corn husks of your heart.
Your mind is the fire for my stove.
I cook my soup with your words.
I have no need for plates or bowls,
As I dine on the wisdom of your soul.
I have no need for tinted windows,
Nor drawn curtains and closed shutters.
I have no roof, no floor, no doors.
And thanks to you, no secrets any more.
I have nothing left in life to hide.
Now that you have robbed me blind.
(originally published at www.ExpatsPoetry.com)
With a gust greater than Grandpa,
limbs break off and leaves litter
the roads. Lane after lane of obstacles.
I have no idea which way to go.
The sobbing rain screams of life’s loss.
She wears love’s black veil of death,
dwells in seedy harbor bars,
serves Hurricanes in grave size drinks.
Which storm will I swim in?
Grandpa died of a wind-swept heart.
He never understood why she left
a damper on what should have been Pop’s best.
He spent grief’s last days traveling home
and often spoke of how, “The road is a poem.”
(Image Credit: http://www.deadlystorms.com/damage2.htm)