Garden Gnomes

The lust of you breath giver tickled my guitar strings
softly and rang the bell that gave an angel her wings.
I guess I can blame you then for taking away my garden-
weaving sweetheart woman with clip-on earrings and
hand-sewn sweaters.
You breathed too hard, rang the bells, she left, she's
gone, you took her away.
Away on the wings of song, fallen gout of the car door
 onto a black sea of
tar the place where pine needles fall,
fall carefully and silently into your lover's arms.
Swept away on a vein of blinding lights
sirens and chaos, strapped in places like a paraplegic by
men wearing white but far from saints,
working the night shift of the grave yard,
pumping air into your oxygen tank.
You scuba-dived in the great reef and felt the Caribbean tousle your white wispy hair.
In the end, I could tell a garden grew in your soul.
It took roots in your left ventricle, made it's way through your aorta and
the big black splotch they found on the scan was
really just the bloom of some other beautiful God's creation.
You really did it this time.
"It's not miracle grow, just TLC" You'd always say, maybe added with some
Pattington Bear and humming Handel's "Messiah" while picking weeds.
I can honestly say I'm still fucking pissed at the
world
because I don't even know the name of the man who
decided to play
god
and say "Oh well, there's no
hope"
I want to tell him You threw up your hands too soon.
Winter comes after each and every harvest the bloom would die
and spring would come, bring all back to life.
You would have argued with the lab coat,
I know, because you were the one to plant
full shades in full sun and have them flourish,
and your perennials would
still be there long after the snow had created torrents in the front lawn.
You, wind-blower didn't wait long enough,
so I blame
You.
You must be an American because everything about that was so
chop-chop, on the double, obviously she didn't want it that way if six hours later she was still in the boxing ring with no "ding ding" in sight.
A big fucking hello and thank you very much for
making my mom break down in the middle of
CVS while I stammered to make sense to the
manager,
stammered to find words to explain the situation the same stammer I make when people say they're sorry
I don't want your sympathy.
Back to the manager, I think it went a little like "Well um Ma'am no, well, she's not crazy, she's just gonna need some, um, well, uh, TIME, yeah that's what she needs. Time"
Tick tock tick tock
You know we all do.
Some things though,
are simply easier said than
done.

Aye, Matey.

Where have my intentions gone,
gone away lost with the wind of a
wayward soul a
meandering ship captained
by a drunken sailor
screaming for mercy from the depths of his
chirrhosis- scared liver about
salty rum not curing his
insatiable appetite.
Well me neither.
Lately nothing cures a hunger and
greed I have for the clock and
nothing hurts more than hearing the
piercing tick tock
in its mocking tone
as if to say,
"Hey diamond dust, you lose,
I win. This is how it is on this
downward spiral."
Spiral down, spiral down,
on second thought,
It's really more of a 360 foot free fall
with only your nose to
stop you.
Somebody make sense of this
madness of life.

Dear World,

If you look at this blog, please comment on my posts.
I like it.
Lots.

Thank you, world.
Love, Hannah.

Watercolor and Gold

Can these photographs be taken through
watercolor irises?
I forgot my camera at Niagara Falls so I
asked the tour guide whether
the falls would still be there tomorrow.
They shift a little bit each year, he answered,
but they'll still be here tomorrow.
I say who knows.
Who knows if the things we see today are here to stay
like hangliders of coconut trees,
dancers of ladybugs,
Tell me,
what are the skyscrapers of which you speak?
What are these man-made things other than
hunks of metal and glass perceived by
orbs implanted into our craniums
then flipped 360
so we can say wow.
The real beauty is in the man
who stands outside the bar
next door
beard the only clothes his own,
cover his photograph eyes with
a hat of cocaine and heroine
he asks where his albums have gone.
All he has is a broken
moment of peace engrained in
his memory strong
as sapphire, malleable as gold,
What is it that he sees, what we see?
Pain a picture with golden irises, and
nobody can see it.
What's the point of under appreciated art?

#24

Brick house.
Where have you been?
What stories do you keep hidden in your
cement grooves?
Brick house.
How many bodies did you slay today?
How many souls did you break today,
deep at the bottom of the ocean,
How many children cry today?
Brick house.
Why did you do it all?
Brick house.
Why did you burn your bridges?

Violin Lessons

Your rope frays to the sharp discord of
a new violinist,
and birds begin to soar.
You paint your melody
and weave your soul into
science-knitted skies.
Sing for me.
Fall to the end of your frayed
rope and sing
the newborn baby wail
the cheer of the father,
the sigh of the mother
the sneer of the devil.
Grip the knot tightly
and open on up.
Feel the pulse of the blood in your
feet as they flee for higher
ground
feel each nerve fire.
Your hope frays to the sharp discord
of a new violinist,
your hope frays to the sound.