Paper Poppies

I have never smelled a real poppy,
much less stood in Flanders Fields
Never been in the trenches,
or walked through the ruins of my efforts
I've always had warm meals and my bed.

I write this freely,
no one governs the thoughts in my head.
I do not understand war
or necessary evils of any kind.
The casualties so grave,
this sort of loss
has not been mine.
There is no way to remember
what I can't even fathom.


But I will never forget
how grateful I am for these truths.

And to those who
afforded them
at such a cost.

I pray the poppies help you sleep.
Love,
gratitude
and peace.


Art: Poppy Fields - Bev Livingstone.

When I Fall

The musty scent of summers surrender
wafts
stirring memories...

with little windy eddies.
Corners of my mind,
so much time spent
in cozy nooks with pen,
trying to decipher
what it all meant.

Hiding from the looks
of those who never seemed to wonder.
So much time crawling out from under.

Now my arms
reach
pouring into Autumn air;
thick and grey.
I am spinning outstretched
in the winds of decay.

Because today
is better.

The Halloween Aftermath

Tiny wrappers colorfully littering the breeze.
Teachers pulling out their hair, beg for mercy please.
Mommy rubs her eyes from worse than usual sleepless night,
'Cause junior's scary sightings woke him up six times from fright.


Yesterday I swear these jeans fit me across the thighs,
and my husband is so whiny crashing from his sugar high.
My mom calls up all chipper, asks 'what ever do you mean?'
I say 'cut the cheery grandma crap, it's the day after Halloween!'

Elway's 1st Poem on How To Give A Robot Hug

Almost entirely a stall tactic-
delivered entirely in very believable robot voice.

"First you have to bend your arms like this,
(use your imagination)
Then you have to beep like this:
BEEEP!!
Then you think to yourself,
Do I love you baby sister?
Then you open your arms
and beep, YES!
Then you pretend your eyes are flashing
and that you are a robot
and you hug!
That's how to give
a robot hug, Mommy!"

2 Poems Ripped From My Soul For One Dumb Guy

I wanted to steal it,
that reserved place in your heart.
I couldn't heal it
Mine had just fell apart.
And now I see the trouble
with living for the security
of a love bubble.
~




I seen you again,
there you were,
on my sleeve.
On my sleeve.
The colours race back
in your face
in my tattoo.
You
branded there,
      and here's from him
            and there's from him
Is anywhere on me left bare?
Is any flesh unmarred by a chance I took to care

I seen you again
& now I miss my skin
not yours.
I don't dare.
There's nothing left of what I saw when I painted you.

I wore you well.
I wore you well.

You.
My tattoo,
you left me naked as the day I was born
My favorite thing I've ever worn.

Thanks for seeming
somewhat torn.
~

Poems From Trying Years - Lit

Wildfire.
She can't resist
burning with the best.
Lit & shining
one love to the next.
It's in her step.

She's like a laser in the night
darting through the corners
of her heart
like light
hits
like hits rush
like a sweet smile
turns her to mush.

And in this brush
so much kindling
can't stop mingling
with beautiful strangers
that melt into friends
now slick
shes a wildfire on the water
reflected in the stars
they illuminate the fields of her memory
to times end.

And truth be told
even when it hurts to burn
she still loves to learn.

Poems From Trying Years- Doodle Bag

If this were New Years Eve
You would wear this party hat
On your penis
And resolve to never drink again.
But it's Tuesday afternoon,
And really too cold for nakedness
So you're smoking, sober,
And keeping your party favors
In the traditional doodle bag.

And of what consequence is this for me?
Selfishly;
The nicest words I ever hear
have been uttered by you after too much beer.
So, for too many reasons
regardless of our seasons
I fear
this is goodbye my dear.

Poems from Trying Years - Pocket Full Of Pills

People weren't made with pills in their pockets.

Pockets are just pockets and won't hold my 'cure'. 

There are obstacles on this path I was meant to endure

Insanity is every sane man's curiosity and denial. 

Denial is every mans lie to himself. 

Being human is accepting these lows and highs, 

the sewage and skies, 

of the heart, 

on the pages, 

in the corner, 

on the wall. 

Art is the prayer to explain it all; 

to relieve that pressure from the soul.

Oh please relieve that pressure from the soul.

And so be it. 

We are human. 

We are pressured. 

We spill. 

We are tempted. 

We are vessels just aching to fill. 

But we aren't made with pockets even if we're born ill. 

We are given the gift of discovery 

from the moment we leave the womb,

and that's all we take on our journey to the tomb.

So I face this bottle of promises

and watch its contents swirling down

with only my hands in my pockets 

as I try not to look down.