Real Deal

Real Deal

she averts her eyes
walking down the street

the sweetest green
lips like betty
eyes like saucers

black on black
nicotine sepia fingers

she walks fast;
she's nervous
almost marching
her boots warn
don't fuck with me

it's all smoke and mirrors
her heart is pink-stained
from loving the world

she is the coolest
girl I know

:hrr

No More Wilding

No More Wilding--

wicked nights,
lost days filled
with the hilarity
of despair

things so easily awry;
predictable at least in that,
the richochet of
controlled chaos

what's black is forgotten
but etched blue somewhere;
bruised on the inside, unforgiven

:hrr

A place for poetry?

Shall this be where I write it all down? I'll write a poem a day. That should be my practice for the next forty days. Along with legs up the wall (yoga), mantra (breathing in I calm body, mind, and spirit; breathing out I smile), and intention (to unblock), I should write.

So today's poem is:

FRIDAY NIGHT

In bright hats and black clothes
they spill out between alleys
on sunshiney streets devoid
of office drones and clean cars
parked at City meters.

The van pulls in and over
the beer bottle; just one
that will be discarded tonite
as they wage war, make love,
fight, vomit, laugh, and cry.

in between today and tomorrow
I could so easily head out with them,
linked arm in arm with you, comrade.

Our laughter echoing around corners
like temple bells chasing darkness.

Heather R. Reed / May 6, 2005