If Love Grew On Trees

 

valentines-day-crafts

If love grew on trees,

Like flowers in the spring,

Then littered my lawn in fall

I would send you all

Proof that love isn’t in things,

But in the air we breathe.

 

I’d show you love isn’t just one day

But grows the whole year round,

Indigenous everywhere,

But it needs attention and care,

And should never be bound,

Or look in kind to repay

 

Feelings you think one owes.

It’s not in chocolates or a romantic date,

Nor in jewelry that sparkles bright.

Rather, it’s in the heart, that glowing light,

And people whose lives we should celebrate,

Because that’s the way love grows.

 

If love grew on trees

that is what I would send

to everyone I love

not just today but when I think of

them my love would transcend

and fly on the breeze.

 

If love grew on trees…

Worn

Peasant-Sitting-by-the-Fireplace-(Worn-Out)source

My brother came to me in a dream

He thanked me for standing by him,

For believing him when very few could.

I told him I never believed him.

 

“You didn’t want to know,

You never asked.

You just wanted to think that someone believed.

I didn’t matter to you.

What I thought was never of great consequence.

You just didn’t care if I believed you or not.

So why come to me now?

Are you searching?

Or is this my doing,

Somewhere in a restive slumber

Hoping beyond hope that you could?”

 

The whole thing has me worn.

I’m tired of praying that my disbelief is the sin of my arrogance,

That the truth has not gone with him to the grave.

I hope I was wrong to think him a liar,

Because even if he didn’t care what I thought,

I care what he did.

Two Shoes Tuesdsay the cue was “tattered.”

I was a stubborn child

DaylightEyes

Was it the added stress
Of having someone there?
Or having to wait whilst
Mum and sis popped out?
Or me, responding to
Whatever goading vibe was given off?
The three of us were stuck
In a car with nothing to do
The devil on my shoulder
Convinced me to mess around with you
I know I took your hat
It had you riled
I wouldn’t give it back
I was a stubborn child.
You asked, but I was having fun
You demanded, but the game was young
You began to threaten; your eyes got wild
I wouldn’t give it back
I was a stubborn child.
You turned, your face a mask of blazing hate
In confined space your whole self did inflate
Words no longer enough – too late, too late
I wouldn’t give it back
I was a stubborn child
Suddenly your hand lashed out
Grabbing – not sure what for
Landed, tangled in my necklace
Which I, in pre-teen vanity had worn
To try to make my sense of self
Not seem so battered and torn
Surely, to an outsider
A kid in a necklace must be the norm
But this new use
This vile new gist
You wound your fingers in – began to twist
Surprised, horrified
I held the hat away
Our friend sat frozen in the front seat
Didn’t know what to say
An ugly look seized you as you smiled
I would not give it back
I was a stubborn child
And so in stale mate
Your gargantuan will ‘gainst mine
Yet with my throat closing over
There wasn’t time
I couldn’t make my point
As the cords bit into my skin
I had to take a breath
I had to let you win
Daddy, couldn’t you see the tears
As your daughter choked for breath?
Couldn’t you see my fears
You hated me so much you’d bring me death?
Daddy, why did you take such pleasure
In showing me I was reviled?
I had to give it back
I was a broken child.

 

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FAMILY

This is a photo of my parents. It features center stage on my refrigerator… The second poem was inspired by all of the photos being magnetically held to my fridge. The first one is fairly self explanatory. Z~

The View From Here
 
Today 
My mother
sat by my side
as I drove past the school
I attended as a child.
The school yard
divided neatly in four,
was the same
and yet so different.
My vision skewed
by size and youth,
It was far too expansive then.
I could never throw a ball
clear across 
the cement playing field.
The stairs no longer
appear insurmountable.
Then I turn-
I see my mother.
This point of view
has somehow
worked in reverse.
No longer unassailable,
or larger than life,
Invulnerability
is not hers to pretend.
When did she become so small?
 z~


Refrigerator Dancers

Black and white glossies in spectator shoes and woolen coats
Give way to pursed lipped kisses in the Coupe, long legs posed like Betty.
She’ll go with him in uniform—she, still one dimensional lacking hue.
Little does he know, he’s a pinup too. He’s doing the icebox waltz.

Time passage yields little faces grouped in hats and mittens in the snow.
Chevy’s occupy the background, gold and avocado greens dominate the kitchen landscape.
The puppy planet, held by apple green magnets, inhabits a prominent spot mid-door.

The budding artist–offspring, not of Betty and her mate but the generation next.
Daddy’s art work is long gone, committed to the memory of a sentimental storyteller.
Toothless school photos yield to the performing arts—drama and dance recitals
Holidays illustrated in detail, gifts and tables set with heirlooms from the icebox days.
Commencement depicts another generation advancing in polaroid
Until they too step aside, making room for the next refrigerator dancers. z~