gazing my deserted mind I loft above above my panic searching for love eluding my grasp I run in pain visions are shaded failing to gain flight now is ending confidence gives in sitting in solitude never will win
Feelings of family
Flooding over me softly
Waiting for tomorrow
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Once, as autumn was blowing away
on crunchy brown leaves,
and frost had appeared, taking the last asters,
I sat on my porch, shivering,
thinking how long it was until spring.
I longed for daffodils,
and warm breezes.
I looked deep inside and realized
that I longed for my past.
When my kids were little,
before I lost my son and health.
When my marriage made me smile.
When I was young.
Then two of my grandsons ran up the street.
They hugged me so tight,
“I love you, Beebee” they smiled.
And I smiled too.
I remembered my grandma used to say,
“We should never wish time away.”
She lived to be 96 years old.
She was so brave and so wise.
I smiled and hugged my grandsons,
and tried to appreciate the biting winds
yet to come before daffodils.
We move without thinking
Our lives clash without a thought
demeanor come in all colors
To be happy is what we sought
Looking back It comes so freely
Our future is hard to see
We struggle with our present
We just can’t let it be
Worry is the main affliction
So hard to turn it down
Most days we paint a smile on
On the inside it’s just a frown
I move in ways of secrecy
Not wanting to be seen
Never knowing exactly what I want
I’m always in between
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Autumn’s fingers poke into
blue skies, coloring trees
crimson, orange, yellow and gold,
dusting them with wealth,
expectation of change this time of year.
gregarious announcer of winter
hunches with gray shoulders as
if it were a cat stretching. An odd
justice creeps over the land,
killing summer, erasing fall, and
lighting the landscape with white
October treasure remains.
Pilfered, we trudge on toward December
quietly, steadily, with
teeth cutting into growth
under the snows.
Violence erupts, blizzard
winds whip with
yammering temperatures to
What You Could Be
I look at him, same age as you,
when death snatched you out of the blue.
He’s just 15, but teachers say,
that he will make it big one day.
I touch your photo, hold it too,
each time I pass, your place, your room.
It looks just like it did that day
when Hell took you and life away.
I see him grow, a brilliant smile,
when he creates, he dreams, compiles.
The things I wish that you could see.
I wonder, Babe, what you could be?
It’s just so wrong that you aren’t here.
I see your face, your eyes, your fear.
Still, no one knows, but you and me,
The truth about what you could be.
I pray the day will not be long,
When something might take up the wrong.
And somehow just, please let me see.
The beauty of what you could be.
Where are orange-red trees?
They linger still in green gowns
I seek autumn gold
The past is not fallen leafs;
it is dirt blanketing newly planted seeds.
It is a crack in the window
causing the afternoon sun
to rainbow across my wall,
allowing November’s cold to seep in.
The past is the eye lash fallen on cheek,
a turned up carpet and door with broken deadbolt,
a watch stopped five minutes till 3.
Sometimes the past comes back.
It scratches at door,
curls around fires,
lays in my bed.
In the clarity of reminiscence
I see what I have been looking away from.
It is stark and it is clear.
The past does not haunt me,
I haunt it.
A lingering scent,
a familiar hand brushed upon the small of my back,
I am always leaving pieces of myself behind
waiting for others to catch up.
I wonder what it is about me
that is so easy to let go.
I must let the past solidify,
mold it into perpetual bricks,
and mend broken windows
until my house can stand.
draped the angel sleeps
the cold of stone not felt beneath
surround her not with pity
she no longer feels her pain
blind to acts of cruelty
deaf to words of hate
as on earth
an angel once again
do not weep your tears
though your heart may break
as you stand before her
rest a marigold where she lays
remember not her sorrow
her soul now free to touch
the face of the stars
brush the dirt away from her
so she maybe cleansed
from those that caused her death
sit and talk with her a while
and you will hear her plea
I sleep, I ask ~ no tears be shed
just remember me
©jmtacken Sept 2013
fingertips trace the suede
that swaddles the comfy place
we’d sit and watch old movies
leaving imprints of my identity
across where you’d lay your arm
the kitchen table where we shared
our meals and laughter from the day or
serious conversations on world
events with stifled yawns from me ~
looking sideways to the crooked frame
hanging on the wall; giggles remembered
and stamped feet, how you never hung it
straight ~ the memories of ‘us’ ~ just
the gate not mended; the grout worn and
fallen; rubbish stacked behind the shed
it would be cleared ‘one day’ ~ things undone
things left; importance now ~ very little
within our walls of home, love held
between four fences ~ that had value
we broke down, distracted by so many things
sweet madness; sweet love of ours
disappeared between the palings
as you drifted out of reach and
that’s what mattered
now with suitcases
at my feet ~ my sweaty hand grips
the handle of the unpainted
door ~ the unfinished
I must say adieu
When you’re near me
I feel electrified.
When you’re gone it’s just
“Someday,” he said,
“I hope you see yourself
the way I see you.”
“It’s more likely,”
she replied, “you’ll
see me the way I
She pieces together
a puzzle at a time.
A shard, a tricep,
a stretch of femur,
attempting to construct
of something fierce.
She collects broken dolls
with missing parts,
recreating what was
left to decay.
Eyes may fit better
in different sockets,
the porcelain doesn’t
always shine until
it’s cracked. She
takes her time.
Once the bones align,
the flesh can grow,
covering the white
a strength, a purpose.
With the patience
of glass, she draws
fine lips and outlines
the lashes of eyes.
Collector of dead things,
you hold the foresight
to see what could be,
once we are put