You won't know what you did

You won't know that I hid

You won't know and I won't tell

You won't know I was in hell

You won't know you stole my life

You won't know I had a knife

You won't know you held such power

You won't know my every hour

You won't know I needed you

You won't know my heart was true

You won't know and I won't say

You won't know you were my day

You won't know how much I cried

You won't know I know you lied

You won't know my faith is lost

You won't know how much it cost

You won't know I won't confess

You won't know about the dress

You won't know it hurts no more

You won't know I'm out the door

You won't know I'm done with you

You won't know my love was true

You won't know that I've moved on

You won't know til I am gone

(Pennsylvania wildfires, south of Pittsburg, March 2017)

I walked a wide circle yesterday 

on a Carolina one-way thin road

in worn down sneakers, searched

past gated driveways, through gardens,

and backyard boats, for a place to sit

while striders skipped ripples by the lakeshore.

Mist teasing on the smoky air, 

the water is not free, cordoned off 

by private property.

The din of a thousand 

non-native birds crowded in oak trees. 

I stood beneath falling acorns they stirred.

Anguished calls incited the anguishing of another.

Frantic, inconsolable. Crows glided like vultures

in curious vigil above the gathering. Newcomers.

No territory rights, aliens

in no familiar migratory flight,

banished southeast.

Mothers who lost eggs and young 

in the charred mountain nests of Costa County

were the loudest, cursing all flame

back to its hellish lairs. They were stitching

the sky to the trees, as one wounded body,

shifting back and forth, crazed

between limbs and wind. 

I'm sorry, I whispered,

and as I violated their space

they raised their voices to a fever pitch.

The birds must think we breathe fire.

How dare I disturb their grieving mothers. 

The feathered tempest moved to trees

of other houses. And I wrote a letter

with my breath in sparrow-song and sorrow,

back into the darkening west, praying

rain be the forecast.

If I get angry at my

Imagination,

If I get angry at my

Depression,

Am I angry at nothing?

If I get angry at a glance that may or may not be hurtful,

If I get angry at a game,

Am I angry at nothing?

If I’m angry at myself,

If it’s all in my head,

Am I angry at nothing?

If I’m angry at the things that will never change,

If I’m never alone, yet I’m lonely,

Am I angry at nothing?

These days, it seems I’m angry at everything.

Maybe too angry.

But I don’t know how to stop.

Once the thoughts flow,

I have to get them out any way I can.

If that means cut,

I cut. I just need

Someone to see, really see

What’s happening inside me.

My thoughts race like a run on sentence no punctuation needed,

All I have to do is

Break up the lines and it becomes a poem.

I think in rhymes, sometimes.

My thoughts make great poetry.

Now how to rid myself of the unceasing anger in me.

It boils, turns to hatred,

Stews and festers until someone gets hurt.

Sometimes, it’s me.

But it’s others I worry about.

How to rid myself of the anger,

The feeling of injustice that

Never seems justified.

Help me out

Of this angry cesspool I dug myself into.

“Have thy tools ready and God will find thee work,” Pa yelled, as he removed his belt from his britches and walloped my hin’ end. “I’ve told you time and time ag’in that you that you has to git the tools clean after you uses ‘em.” Pa was a big ol’ giant of a feller and I cringed as he backhanded my mouth, causing a little trickle of blood to run down my chin.

“But Pa,” I said, “I was goin’ to clean ‘em but you was in town fer a spell so I stops choppin’ the wood, thinkin’ I gonna clean the axe after I goes to the ol’ swimmin’ hole with Bubba. It was so dang hot! I thought I’d scrub it afore you got back!”

“There aint’ no excuse for sloth,” snarled my Pa. “If you want to be ‘round here a little longer, you has best learn to min’ your manners and take care of yo work if you be wantin’ some vittles."

Well, I shore was hongry so I decides to do what he tells me until I be grown. I’se already eight so thas only ‘bout six more years. In this here country, tha’s considered ol’, fer sure.

I bides my time, doin’ mos’ all of the work, cleanin’ the tools and tryin’ to make ol’ Pa happy or at leas’ not stompin’ mad all the time.

But I’se angry inside, I kin feel it boilin’ aways. One day I decides I can’t take it no mo’ so I do what I has to do! But I clean the tools after, until they shines, not a speck of blood, jes like ol’ Pa always sez to do. I had my tools ready and God did find me work so hallelujah and Praise the Lord.

And as the candles burn out

One by one by one

And the bathwater turns lukewarm

You’re still at the forefront of my mind

• • • • • • • • •

I was hesitant

To return home

For thanksgiving

Scared of the memories

This town holds of you

I was scared of seeing

Your car

As I drove down the street

And while I’m angry

And I tell myself I hate you

I hope we both know that’s not true

Anger.

It starts out red.

Raging.

Burning.

Pure senseless emotion.

Raw and consuming.

It is destruction.

And then it turns orange.

Still fresh,

but not so overwhelming.

Like a fire in the palm of your hand.

Or maybe it's in your chest?

It may be an oxymoron,

But this anger is comfortable.

And then it turns yellow.

Sickly yellow.

The anger is more of an undertone.

You wonder if it's an overreaction.

Should you still be angry?

Questioning, questioning, questioning!

But you just can't let go.

And then it turns green.

This anger is more hateful.

It lashes out at those around you.

It despises that they are happy.

Wants them to feel what it feels.

Spiteful.

Envious.

And then it turns blue.

A cool anger.

This one is the most dangerous.

Because it is calm and collected.

Because it is thinking.

You are now hating with both your heart,

and your mind.

And then it turns purple.

Purple is sticky.

Purple gets pulled in so many directions.

Some choose an indigo revenge.

Others a passive violet.

Some disappear into lilac.

And others explode with magenta.

And then....

And then it fades

It fades into whites,

Blacks,

Greys,

Browns

It fades into every colour of the rainbow.

But it fades.

Feel the wrath of a redhead full of anger.

See the amber color come to her face.

Hear her heart beating so fast, so furious.

Feel the bitterness, the seething heart.

You fouled her, feel the disgust.

Hear her hate as she yells at your mask.

Do you feel the disdain, this disagreeable task.

She loathes anger but yet, here it lies.

When the anger rises, she wants to sit back and die.

But she cant help but let it out, her anger has a mind of its own, no doubt.

Has she always been this way, no, not all her life.

Persons have hurt her and from that discontent, her anger has evolved.

The bitterness and rage are always deep down inside, it takes the right comment or action to make it arise.

After her explosion of anger, she lays down and cries, she is sorry, so sorry for her actions and her words, she just wants to die.

Anger is evil, this redheaded woman knows, she has to disown it and vent all her fury to Prose... ;)

At first I don’t realize that it’s coming, it’s happening. All is fine, until it’s not. Then It broils up inside me, bubbles up. Starts at my feet and paints my cheeks, turning my face different hues of embarrassment. The fire escapes, burning people with scolding threats. Fists clammed shut and jaw clenched taught, letting the burning rage devoure the sanity that’s left. Nostrils flare, eyes narrow. There’s no use from denying anger when it’s unstoppable.