Jack-O-Lantern Of Hearts

When I got home that night,
I noticed the smiling jack-o-lantern
in my front yard was crushed.

No October Orthodontist could
ever repair that ruptured smile
so crooked at its best, and simply broken, now.

I thought about our last talk,
jack-o-boots flying over hob-nail heart
and guttery scuttery candle-hopes flicker-fade

over cooling coffees neglected in the heat
of the moment, where carving knives were wielded
underneath the punkin-spice latte scents, and those blades

sent us reeling like Cinderellas at midnight
our heart-mice flying from Ichabod and his boots
and those words which left us out front, crushed.

***This was written to a poetry prompt…the first stanza***

Fundamentalists Are People Too (Just Like Progressives)

john pavlovitz

Arguing2
“That’s the thing with all you Liberals…”

Now there’s an ignorant, wasteful sentence starter if there ever was one; a lazy, dismissive, broadly painted insult disguised as objective insight, designed to malign someone and undermine their perspective and write them off—all in less than 140 characters. (I’ve become all too familiar with it in recent months.)

In the bloody trenches of social media debate, it’s a cheap, unproductive, foolish tactic, yet as debate tactics go it’s no more cheap, unproductive, or foolish than beginning a sentence beginning with:

“That’s the thing with all you Fundamentalists…”

It turns out that when confrontation arrives in matters of faith, creating caricatures comes equally easy to all of us regardless of our theological leanings. We’re all quite capable of snap judgements and blanket insults and drive-by stereotypes.

Heck, it’s a whole lot quicker than actually stopping to listen to people.

The moment in a heated conversation when we lump someone in with…

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Cold Comfort

This quote…

“Your worth
is determined by you,
and with no need for
an explanation to anyone.”
Wayne W. Dyer

Here is the problem for the person who struggles with self-worth issues:

If you see yourself as unworthy and worthless, then you are doomed.  And I have heard it more times than you can imagine…”well just see yourself as worthy and you will be”!

That works as well as the last time I saw myself as a billionaire
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This Water, Cloudy

No…the water
is not dirty
or polluted or
even stagnant.

It’s just cloudy,
this water, cloudy.

It was clear and warm,
luxuriant and lazy
but quick-like, to pull you
in and then lay you
down easy and gentle
and snug.

But you
never came in
so my desire,
that unknown
cloud unknowing
leaked out,
just trickled away
around me

until the pool
was cloudy
and thick
with my
longing want.

 

But You Won’t Even Know…

…because you are blocked!  Giggles!

“Cancer will block you as a Facebook friend, immediately cross you off
their Christmas card list and then assign a ringtone to your name so that
if you call, they can ignore your call AND get the satisfaction of ignoring it!
All this followed by a hasty retreat into their shell to sulk because
that’s where crabs go to nurture their hurt feelings.”
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Before The Icicles Fell

they were caught here, frozen
before the icicles fell
before the snows all melted
before the laughter faded
before the tears unfolded
before the digger shoveled
before death walked unfettered

they thought this moment
would last forever again
and over again,

and sitting here
i cannot tell
if I am the snowball
or the thrower
or the moment
hanging in static
time stood still

My Unpicked Branches

It’s the season of harvest and fruit,
the culmination of that brown sweat
shed in summer-shimmer sheets
and red-hot ribbons that somehow
twine around roots and snake up
trunks and push out thru branches
in the swollen tender tips of twigs
become blossoms become
fruit…ripe…heavy.

The real mystery to me
is why nobody picks these
crimson circles crisp and crunchy?
Why I stand here full and verdant
fragrant and feeling fine,
and not an apple plucked or pulled?

I cannot pick myself.
I cannot harvest that which
is perpetually out of my reach
but is only one ladder away
from anybody who hungered
for those apples bobbing
on the swaying branches.

But I am used to that, being
a feast for birds and bugs
and winter worms in the cold,
a fermenting hearth in a frosty night
under the stars so bright
and dancing and the wind
still caressing my unpicked branches.