blossoms in April

they nature of the way thing's are.

blossoms in April

last pale brown spirit of frost dies a slow green death

in the picket fenced killing yard.

reincarnated leaves return as battered blue-black toenail falls away-

ambition's corpse on the grey vinyl bathroom floor.

I need Jesus.

charcoal and ivory church hats return to a former flagrant pastel glory.

do God’s eyes squint at Springtime Sabbath?

dark oaken pews in shapely rows like stanza poetry that carpet bombs the senses

and robotic responsive ping ponged psalms bounce and fade.

this was mom’s tabernacle. mother was a saint.

she suffered deeply when she died. none of these people were there.

I need whiskey.

torn night transcribed in slashed prose pencil dreams;

biographical thanatopsis napkin tucked in the catchall kitchen drawer

with orphan twist ties, unpaid bills, Chinese menus and inkless pens.

three elegant yellow tea glasses of anesthesia and I am staring

at a lifeless television from a secondhand blue recliner in strained silent tears.

mourning Winter. prank calling God. hiding from the light.

my sorrow blossoms in April.

I don’t know what I need.

Author's Note

hug someone you're angry with. you would be angry if you didn't care about them.

Reviews

[Emily B]

these words haunt me, I understand that feeling well

[Kristina Moulaison]

Your words leave me speechless...and alive. When I don't want to read empty, boring poetry anymore I come back for the truth of your words. So good! Not helpful or constructive, but there you go.