Be the friend you would like to have

On the surface I may not seem like much but I have always held this truth;

“Be the change you want to see” (Gandhi)

That means be the friend you would like to have.

I used to be the typical teenager, self-involved, over-sensitive. I thought I was being a good friend but looking back I can see some easy mistakes I made such as always putting my feelings first and not being able to empathize enough with others.

Now that I’m a bit more empathetic I really try, but I must admit it has been hard to make friends as an ‘adult’ because so often people lie and let you down.

More than anything I wish I had friends where I live now, when I moved to America I really lost the ones I left behind, as distance tends to do that, and I didn’t make new ones. I know I should ‘join a club’ but I’m an introvert and that’s really hard for me to do.

Friendship is so underestimated and one reason adults can be lonely especially if like me they don’t have kids.

I would never treat a friend badly and I really don’t understand those who do. Even on WP I have had some people mistreat me, those days are over, I’m too guarded now, which really if you think about it, is a shame.

If we all treated others as we would wish to be treated and we were HONEST the world would be so much better. Period.

Quiet sincerity

575d3e8450d2b93d9ae583716b569a05I learned

long after I should

friendship comes not

in fizz and pour

nor the brightness of

shower and radiance

nor promise and its papery craft of bows

but more often unexpected slow

hesitant over years

water leaving her tears on

marble rock

stalwart and less demonstrative

a cat who watches food put out

does not immediately approach

I fell for the fireworks

the hot kiss on lost ego

glittering words

feathered protests to believe

those party animals in their tinsel crowns

pushing me toward celebration

in those days I did not mind

the quiet soul who hung back

someone you could call upon

when deserters ran out of festivity

turned their backs on former animation

I was suckered by their demands to believe

their loudest call was truth, hear me!

now I know quiet love is the steadiest

those who may seem cold or aloof

often outlast town crier

hawking themselves for fancy

I’m sorry it took me so long to

understand silence and softness

are more often truth

much like the piper who

sung children through the mountain

bewitching their longing for loud

merriment

before they grew and knew

the sweetness of sincerity

whispered

Cast in open mouth

Fickle her words

imprecise

imperfect

slices of lemon

squeezed on cuts

cast in open mouth

let the plaster envelop

emotion

I suppose it’s her need

to inflict harm

when her own heart devours

when lust points compass

and mercy

mercy does not show

for role count

instead choosing

to sit out turn

bashing heels against

old radiators

trying to keep warm

this is the danger of

sore hearts

seeking solace

in the unknown

corridor of others

tempered souls

watchful against

storm

Flat hands pushing

They predicted

she would write down

the scar

since healing

was slow

words conveying

that breakage

They predicted

she would condemn

the ones who made the thirteen turns

in hangman’s noose

and pushing lightly

watched her fall like dandelion seed

catching heavy air

she was predictable

and not the one they knew

but some amalgam of all they had hated

in their little boxes of life

laid without opening on red shelf

she who carried her shoes

when stepping through

knew there were times words

could not save

could not banish

the cruelty of flat hands

pushing

Winding a clock

Whom ever first penned

the idea coldness was strength

and weakness came when we

trusted and let others in

must have known the curve of the knife

those disposed to violence

carry in their mouth

just incase a moment

should present itself

and licking their lips

wide

they conquer and divide

our feeble entreaty

just leave us be

on the wet coil

perhaps our world measures

guts and glory

on how much blood

remains

when after battle they come

to count the fallen

and it is always your dearest

the one who came closest

the one who said I will never

remove you from warmth

who sharpens that knife

and turns it like

winding a clock

makes it tick

reluctantly

ahead

Death

Strange faced girl sits in her pew

itching wool tights with Bible corner

whilst Mormon’s console Jehovah’s

witnessing their profit in the funeral

business

all along she hadn’t believed

people could turn to wax effigy

the poor man in his pine coffin knew

formaldehyde truths

his children driving home

instead of toys throw words

of anger and resentment

she had always wanted siblings but now

in her black faux expensive dress

less couture than ransacked bargain store

she wasn’t so sure

how the language of the world made sense

if God laughed at those who pretended

to repent

or God was a lizard drinking from brown bottles

one block down from the mockery

of death

 

Mirror without glass

Strange it is aware of how much taken can be borne

you’d have said no impossible not me not at all

carrying heaviest load thought

how learn we the ropes of our decent and reach

first drowning

then arisen

standing without standing straight

you tried like a metalurical priest

to fasten and shape

I thought I would melt underneath your savage press

but as the flower kept between two pages

dessication leads to new birth

seeds lost in stolen air

we are mirages of ourselves when we bleed

out and through the ever diminishment

believing no, no, no

it’s too much

and still we are

and still we are

solidified by the impossible shoulder

of endurance

to hold others feet

above the cold water

of disregard

a mirror without glass

Setting water alight

If they came and in their stiff buttoned jackets

and hard metal heads

decreed and left stamp on our heckle

I’d defy their savage rote and like every time

you and I existed in each other

I’d defend you to the death

you who is that fixture

in my emptiness

without which

north winds wreck

in savage play

I can no more stand sure

if you are gone the lights

dim and tables are cleared of joy

as if every day were the mourning of an empire

you set the sun with your smile

your little toes with their remembrance of music

how the miniature lines of your being

configure me

I cannot hold you tighter

as moon is cast over cloud

in consulting glow

playing the fiddle on your ribs

secure in sleeping rise

our island of each other

circles within circles

expanding underwater

all is lost in absentia

you color my aim and paint

light into uncertain corners

lending warmth when the world

feels brittle and calloused

this I know

as the sound of your heart

beating steady and small within

your instrument of bone

it is your shoreline I swim toward

when alone we seek to drown

ebb under wave and loosen our

hold

your small hand reaching like anchor

plucking ground

in gargled purchase

a single red among

yellow mustard seed

cutting out all else

I mark by direction by the sun

straight as our swim from oppressive

afternoon heat we strip our tempered

clothes leaving them articles

of faith strewn on drying hands of grass

watching as your slenderness is

swallowed by my own

cast of warmth

where honey melts the

harshest critic soft in

bewitchment you tighten against

me like willow garnering deep

roots stands silvery and fine

murmuring one to the other

setting water alight to mist

in shallow reflecting glass the

prism of wonder

casting majesty upon

musing surface

 

Kindling

There are sinews of unsaid moments

trailing sweat stains

across best intentions

and

girls who didn’t unknot their tongues

plying their bellies full of seed

to assuage their threaded hunger

so

time paints lines on faces upturned

searching empty skies for sign of worth

as tightly we spindle faith like

the cat who loses his game

in triangle of sunlight

with weary grasshopper

seeking shelter in

the dying of winter

collecting our bones

for kindling