When I Am Done

When I am done, will you have known me?
Seen inside the empty spaces, overseen remembered embraces, known my fear’s personal faces?

When I am done, will you have heard me?
Bright joy over small things, know when my laughter rings, which songs I often quietly sing?

When I am done, will you have seen me?
The ‘me’ I see, the me I aim to be, the me that only others see?

When I am done, will you have felt me?
Shared finger touches on baby skin, trace my face where wrinkles set in, warmth of my body as the days begin?

When I am done, what will I be – to thee, and thee and thee?

~SMK
Inspiration – the passing of a co-worker today, the loss of a quality person.

Mirage


Mirage

We peer as if behind delicate lace-work to soften
Need – weighted with a terrible tinge, puce maybe?
Whispering aches only heard by wall art
Behind cool darkened doors of solitude.

It appears in couched terms
Divulged in metaphor, spun in rhyme
Shrouded in lyrical prose; mirages no one sees but
All see, in this overcrowded desert of bodies.

Emperors all are we
Scribbling in our invisible clothes, startled
If spotted behind our woven illusion, when
A fellow wanderer drinks at our mirage to slake thirst

Relief echoes in vibrato, rapidly rushing
Shell of pretense cracked and shucked, into
The refuse bucket, delicate innards shimmer, anticipatory
And rush we, into shared weaknesses and frailty
-Need nestled against need.

~SMK
Inspiration: The life of writing.

Under the Childish Moon

 

Awash in the light of innocence
Feet dangling in the fountain of youth
Back when monsters were truly imaginary

Lazing in the grass watching
Cloud animals on parade
The perspective of trees varied

Losing one’s heart
Just part of ‘Operation’
Not a game people played in real life.

Dreams were still spun out
Lightly, vividly, the colors
Of cotton-candy puffs at the once-a-year fair

Today, I want to stretch silly putty over
A comic relief of the face of one I love
Laugh until we cry

Back when monsters were truly imaginary
Feet dangling in the fountain of youth
Awash in the light of innocence

 

~SMK

Inspiration: A walk under the full moon, thinking back to when things were simple.

She Doesn’t Mourn Well

Grace there used to be in the mourning
Banded arms, veil-shrouded tears
Private yet publicly seen scenes
Black cars with black windows
To hold the bleakness inside

So that it doesn’t leak out and get on passers-by

Why did it have to come the year she understood
there is no afterlife
This is life, get after it
One per customer, one size fits most
Unless you have the imagination for two

Which proves good, since she is one now.

Why did he write for forever preserved in words, her manna
His inked fingerprints staining the paper
“I hope this is your best year yet”
In the year that all colors turned to ash, heart turned into
Endless forms, mailings, courtrooms

The vagaries of dead life

Why did people say ‘he’s watching over you’ like
That is comforting – oh, to comfort them, that’s right
Because love can barely bear to watch the loved
Suffer, fall apart, spin out of control, lay staring at the ceiling
Mumbling like a mad person alone in the dark

Maybe they think he went to hell.

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Sheet Music

Sheet Music

If I were a melody in your mind, how would you write me?
In Adagio perhaps, as in the best way to approach.
Would you linger over Staccato, to match your heartbeat in my presence?
And although some may prefer Delicato,
It seems best paired with Appassionato, as two hearts enfold into one.

With tempo written, how would then you elicit my sound?
Gentle finger strokes upon ivory, scaling the highs and lows
Lovingly drawing a bow long and slow across heartstrings, echoing
Would you form the strong embouchure required of the reeds and brass
Or be the pounding, driving force holding together the pace found in the percussion line.

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