Agape

Unconditional love is
the love of your mother;
you are precious to me.
But you chose this.
You created this issue.
We don't want this disagreement.
We don't want you.
You are like an adulterer,
destroying our family,
because you broke
God's rules.
Absolute truth comes from
the teachings of scripture.
Sin is sin.
But,
you can be forgiven,
by God
by Me
if you only repent.
Free yourself from the stronghold of sin.
Lay your burdens at my feet.
I'd take a bullet for you,
I'd die on the cross for your sins,
if only you would let Me.
If only you'd let Me create you
in My own image.
Then I wouldn't have to face
my conditional love:
the love of your mother.

I'm so sorry

I feel sorry about everything. To everyone.

And proud of nothing. 

I don't think I have ever been proud of much.

Because everything has always been tinged by the underlying knowledge

that if they know

when they know

their pride will die

and will be replaced with

despair and

disgust. 

And here I sit, with proof.

A glowing letter written in ignorance

and a devastated email

written in knowledge.

What am I to conclude?

But to be justified?

In all my years

of internal abuse?

I am a monster.

That is how I feel.

I know different.

But to feel is to trump 

all logic.

I need out, but there is no out but selfishness.

I want in, but there is no in but lies.

What do I do?

But sit here and feel paralyzed.

And hope that the growing pile of work

and the days until the weekend

can distract 

from the truth

                        of present realities.

Truly, I Am

I sit listening

not wishing to disrupt

or be noticed.

A physical ghost,

walking about noiseless

terrifying when recognized

for what I truly am.

Is it better to hide?

A shadow of what once was

to enable what truly is? 

Or am I truly a lie,

a fiction to myself,

unable and unwilling

to contribute

to them;

to me.

I sit listening, 

wondering if this is how

I and we

are meant to be.

I put my foot down on

I put my foot down

on this shaky teeter-totter

called friendship;

brotherhood;

Love.

I teeter

you totter

we move to balance

you refuse.

You step off,

anger, anguish, fear

all justifications.

This is my fault.

I put us on the teeter-totter.

I removed the stabilizer.

I unhinged our calm. Our resolution.

I plunged us into uncertainty

and painful effort

to remain constant and steady

and not lose sight of what is most important:

Us.

But now you refuse. I ask too much.

I demand consideration of my burden.

How could I have been so foolish;

to think

that you might consider.

For, as you cleverly retort,

I know The Way, your way.

The burden of proof is on me.

And you walk away,

your teeter in the air,

my totter sinking into the suffocating mud.

I refuse to apologize.

I guess we’ll both sink

in our own shit.

the Us

Four hair-scraggled legs

dangle together

skimming the surface.

The toes break

the seductive stream

and contemplate submersion.

But the playful legs

are attached

to rational beings

concerned little with the surface,

and the stream, and the legs,

and the hair, and the submersion

but contemplate

the togetherness

the we

the Us.

And as the four legs dangle

together, we submerge in the Us.

The New Year Revisited

The new year
is reborn
after every slumber.
The moment of conscious
choice to place both feet on
the ground and move forward
is January first. Without
the confetti, streamers and champagne
but with equal opportunity at
freshness and renewal. The chance
to make that new year
goal is now and now and now now now
now is the time to move forward. Get out of bed. Stop
waiting for the new
year and embrace this moment.
I choose the rebirth of
the moment and can
barely fathom the
possibilities.
 

Memory Poem #4

Eyes clasp 

quickly divert

from flustered giddiness.

But you see it:

my knowing smirk.

Your head fills with red;

embarrassment and annoyance.

Uncertainty mixed

with a definitive belief

in swift retaliation.

Your eyes fall

on the pert shift

of my weight

from side-to-side

and the gentle

sway of my ass.

Your plan is concocted

as quickly as enacted.

Stepping forward

with determined strides,

you pull back your arm

for the wind-up-smack

prepared for my

unsuspecting ass.

You throw your arm forward

with malicious force,

only to be jarred

by the devastating thwack

of the back-brace

cleverly disguised

under my loose-fit clothing.

I spin in surprise,

observing a triumphant smirk

of successful revenge

as you turn

and triumphantly waltz away.

Trying to hide

your throbbing hand

under an armpit

and biting back

a whimper.

all I know, revisted

I sit amidst
my bloody entrails
with you
trying to recover.
This
all of the muck
is the real me.
according to you.
I begin to believe.
as do you.

We continue to sit
amidst our waste
glorifying the grime
that chokes and conceals
the true foundations
beneath.

I look about me
in disgust,
realizing that I
we
are trapped
in the muck
the entrails
the shit
the bile
I vomit as you pick through
and thank me.

I cannot remain
any longer.
I rise to my feet
and walk away.

I must purge myself
of the shit.

I only hope
you too can pull yourself
out of the muck.

Only when removed
individually
from the waste
will we see
the foundation
surface again.

Memory Poem #3

It was a beautiful day

set aside

for us.

To exercise our bodies

and celebrate our bond.

With high ambitions

and detailed plans,

nothing could hinder us.

Or so we thought,

as we meandered along

chatting and laughing,

contemplating and discussing,

stopping by a mulberry tree

to sample the sweet delicacy

before moving forward

on our arduous adventure.

Fresh and ready for a feat

nothing prepared us

for the turn of a corner

and a sprawled figure.

You were concerned.

A roller-blader

seemed non-plussed

by the figure’s presence

they passed

fifteen precious minutes

ago.

We moved forward with

Sir

And

Hello

And

Are you okay

And

He’s not responding.

dropping to my knees

removing his helmet and glasses

feeling for a pulse

listening for breathe.

And

I don’t hear or feel anything

And

Is he dead?

And

I have to try.

I lift the chin

I breathe into a lifeless gurgle

I compress the chest

the snaps and tears of shattered bones.

You call for help.

Then you join.

And others join.

And others have stories.

But nothing changes the fact:

he’s dead.

I remember

mounting our bikes

and continuing forward

with tearless eyes,

heavy hearts

and a devastating,

yet irreplaceable

moment.

Tragedy bred unity.

Some semblance

of understanding

for an event

that makes no sense

beyond death.