Haiku #8: Tyrant’s Masquerade

What is Fear but the
Great pretender, thief of dreams
Dressed as salvation

What is Fear but the
Leech bleeding dry the soul of
Its quest for a mate

What is Fear but the
Builder of prisons for hearts
Convicted of love

Haiku #4: Obsession

How to write Haiku
Is all I can think about
How I wish I knew

Haiku #2: The Wolf

We saw a white wolf
Alone one hot August day
Wild, free, staring too

Kosovo Bride

Speak to me of darkness
I have been blindfolded and brutalized.

Terror cannot conceive of light.

Paint for me pictures in blood
I have seen families butchered.

Horror does not believe in justice.

Sing to me ballads of sorrow
I have buried my baby.

Tragedy cannot fathom rebirth.

Rant to me of unfairness
I have courted death.

Despair does not believe in life.

Then.

Speak to me of dreams
I will throw wide the windows.

Dawn follows night.

Paint me a portrait of laughter
A child resides in me yet.

Defiance will not concede.

Sing me a song about freedom
I have a red dress to wear.

Hope cannot be restrained.

Whisper my name and kiss me
I will be yours, tonight.

Love is Fate rebuked.

Bemoaning the ends

 

She undergoes in the name of love endless insult,

everything a means to an end,

comprised of acts against nature involving

 

hot wax

razors

foul smelling creams

food deprivation

scissors

tweezers

bar-bells

treadmills

abortions

a high priced psychoanalyst

eye liner

carrot juice

and the observation and feigned enjoyment of such pastimes

  as football, tv, and Nascar

… to name a few.

 

Please him, please him, please him,

she has been taught since infancy.

Never did anyone suggest please yourself.

She spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

In the end, it always ends.

 

She wanders from place to place,

repeating the cycle,

through the good years,

the years of her youth,

the years she can never get back.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

Till one day, something snaps, something changes,

and now she chooses which acts of nature

she will violate and why,

and there is no him to please anymore;

they have stopped lining up at her door

 or she has told them all to leave,

she doesn’t know which.

 

It is quieter now,

she is more focused,

and she doesn’t feel guilty nearly as much,

though she still spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

It is not that she has given up on love.

It is that she has a different understanding

of what the word means than she used to.

 

Then one day she meets someone she thinks

maybe she could love someday,

the right way,

the way love was intended.

 

She admires this man,

she respects the way he faces his demons,

and in his presence,

she feels lighthearted and joyous

in a way she has not for years.

 

He says he wants to be her friend,

and he cries when he confesses

he cannot give her more.

 

She looks in the mirror and weeps.

Not from sadness; after all, she can give no more in return.

Not from happiness; where was he twenty years ago?

Not even from habit.

 

She weeps because his hesitations are her own,

his fears, as fresh and raw as hers,

His reasons as old and familiar as the skies.

 

She realizes he may find it easier

to walk away than to walk toward,

and she will end up, once more,

 

Bemoaning the ends.