knees pulled to chin
again
and eyes closed tight
tired of the tears 
the fears
and the years of neglect
she wonders 
to herself 
how is it possible to hurt so fucking much
when not a word is spoken
she just wishes 
he cared enough
to fight 
yell
or just say her name in disgust 

the thing we must decide is…
is it worth the rings inside the tree

my words are the remnants of 
the love of 
the hate of
my words are the outline of
broken pieces of
last drops of
the last breath of
my words are the result of
the instead of
because of
in fucking spite of
my words are the death of
the healing of
faith of
life of

…me

it was a different moon 
not blue or full or glowing
and it wasn’t made of wax
or cheese 
it didn’t have a man in it
and the fireflies didn’t keep it lit at night

it was our moon 
and it was a different moon

some hold their dreams and wishes
their hope and faith
in those old, clear mason jars
and they put them up on raw wooden shelves
out in aged sheds 
or on the window sill in the kitchen
some stash them under the bed in the guest room
that no one uses and smells of must
there they collect, through the years,
dust and forgetfulness 
they lose their magic from when they were first placed
they become lonely…and sad

i chose to put ‘shine in my jar
it seemed like a better plan

She stands lost in a thought
A tiny finger to her lips
Head slightly tilted to one side
Appearing too old for her age
Well, too old for me anyway

Certainly she’s only three
How could she be any more
Yet…she is more, so much more
At different times she is more
But, at night, she is three

When I read her “Goodnight Moon”
And she’s as Snug as a Bug
After the Prayers are said
When her nightly movie has begun
Then…then she’s three

Most days…through my eyes
She’s growing like a dandelion
She’s a dandelion seed
Being blown away with the breeze
Blown out of my life, in to hers

She stands with her hands on her hips now
Wearing Levi jeans and painted toes
Fascinated by color and texture
Playing the guitar…not really knowing how
And time seems to pass me by

Won’t be long and she’ll be too old
Too old for my Heart to take
Off in this frightful world 
Spreading her wings to fly away
But at night she’ll still be three…to me

So you must go my Angel
I’ve got you protected in my Heart
During your quietest moments remember
Daddy will always be there with you
And at night you’ll still be three

Dandelion seed on the breeze
Flying through eternity
It’s the cycle of life you see
Yet in my Dreams you’re still three
And you’re here with me

fragile hearts long ago cracked
by evil doings and a wicked way
but did not shatter for all it lacked
because love is a magical display
this heart was scarred and duly tracked
by ugliness and sinister sway
broken hearts that severely lacked
are a dime a dozen…or so they say

the moon is a poet
it speaks to us each night
in eloquent words 
that change our lives
but for a while
it says that it will love us forever
and never ever leave
it makes us believe 
with his poetic tongue
and glowing eyes
then falls beneath the suns weight

we still believe the moon loves us

words have tendencies to fall into ruts
some into those muddied deep ruts
i call them tracks and ruts as they may be
i follow them

the thing about ruts 
is though they may be deep 
they may be muddied
they usually get you to were you are headed
that’s the reason they are ruts

words have tendencies to fall into ruts
those are the words i tend to use