Signs, Signals, and Omens

 

Signals, signs, omens and the

moments.

I seem to miss them.

Although, I’m not always looking for them,

like some ancient oracle.

 

In hindsight though, I see them all

too clearly. The moments when

I should have noticed the way the

wind was blowing, or that the light

had changed from green to red.

 

I’d miss smoke signals on the

open prairie only to realize later,

as the Natives shot their arrows into

my body, that I knew something

was terribly amiss on the plains.

 

It’s terribly hard to recognize

what the Tea leaves meant,

after you’ve already rinsed your cup

out and hung it to dry on the rack;

was that a skull?

 

I’m not always the swiftest

in the interpreting of the will

of the stars, or if there is any will

with them at all, or if it was even

a symbol for me.

 

Like, what if I intercepted someone

else’s message and completely correlated

it to the wrong experience, ruining not only

my destiny but the destiny of some total stranger

who might have been waiting for some true sign?  

 

I don’t even sometimes grasp the moment

when all she wants me to do is kiss her because all

I’m thinking about is how much I wish she’d

kiss me, so the message is missed and the moment

goes by and no one gets kissed.

 

I need my signals to arrive with a Thud.

The signs to make my eyes tear and

the omens arrive like a movie premier,

which I’d probably miss anyway,

still thinking about that kiss.

Picture Credit: https://www.carriegollergallery.com/shop/carrie-goller-smoke-signals-encaustic/mixed-media-48x48

Snow Ain't the Worst of it

 

The world is a big place,

but it’s very small.

 

While you occupy a large

space on it in your own

perspective, you’re really

just a speck, a tiny little mote.

 

So, stop behaving as if

you’re the only one around.

Or the only one who matters.

 

It’s something I noticed

as we were digging ourselves

out of the mountains of heavy

snow that recently blanketed

us.

 

The absolute disregard for anyone

other than one’s self.

Be it through shoveling snow into

a pile which will eventually become

someone else’s problem or literally

digging out your parking space but then

moving your car so you can take up

TWO parking spaces, and basically indicate

that everyone else can go screw themselves.

 

At least you got your space, Johnny.

Effing Johnny, man.

 

I don’t know where the sense of community,

or togetherness or a sense of unity ever went;

perhaps it’s just a myth I’ve persisted in believing,

that good people will do good things just because they

are good things to do.

 

Sure, there were minor instances of

people helping others, doing the right thing,

but I personally witnessed so little of it,

I did what I could to help, to not be a Johnny.

But it seemed so, thin?

 

We’re nothing as individuals really,

just specks of cosmic dust hurtling through

Space on a medium sized rock, and we

really aren’t that important.

Perhaps not even worthy of Rock Star parking.

Messy Valentine's

 

The heartbeats thudding

in the chests of lovers

as they embrace, quickened

by passion and excitement,

anticipating the long kisses

that feel like melting together

in congealed commitment. 

Gross. Like, super gross. 

The metaphorical description

sounds so lovely, but if you

actually saw two people melting

together you’d probably

vomit. 

Valentine’s Day is a bane

on the hearts of the single

person. It hurts the mind,

the ego, the parts of the soul

that long for a Valentine of 

their own. 

I don’t hate Valentine’s Day.

I like it quite a lot actually.

I just strongly dislike 

celebrating it with a whiskey

on the rocks and my sofa.

Rather than someone who

is as into me as I am into them.

I’m not easy to love,

I’m a bit battered and slightly

bent around the edges, I am

a bit stodgy in my ways, occasionally

closed, sometimes quiet, sometimes

deeply annoyed by things others find

to be a mere nuisance. 

But I have love to give,

to the right Valentine,

who’s just as battered and bent

as I am, perhaps even less so. 

So that metaphorical melting

together can become something

real, without being

gross, super gross. 

To those happy lovers though,

I bear you no ill will and 

honestly love your ability

to love so completely and

fully the person that you

chose to be your Valentine. 

Happy Valentine’s Day, Lovers. 

All the Feels I Felt

 

The feeling you thought you

felt, wasn’t the feeling you were

actually feeling at the time you

thought you felt it.

It was a different feeling.

 

You aren’t feeling it,

that feeling that’s supposed to

occur when you know your feeling

is right, that sixth sense feeling.

That inside feeling.

 

Some feelings are supposed

to be a spark that you can judge

by how it makes the rest of your

feelings feel. And when you don’t

get that feeling, you have to say,

you’re not feeling it.

 

Which makes others have the

feelings, the sore feelings, the

feelings that make you feel sick

to your stomach because you can’t believe

how much feeling you poured into

their feelings in the hopes that your

feelings will be reciprocated.

 

I’m just going back the feel of

things, no actual structure or shape,

no color or tone, just the feel of it,

the feel of the room, the feel of those

absent eyes, the feel of being left

out alone again.

 

The feel of nights alone on the

deflated and over-felt sofa,

the feel of cigarette smoke wafting

in little blue whirls overhead like a

crown of missed opportunities and

extinguished flaming feelings.

 

All the feels,

felt so often,

felt too much, crowded,

pressed together under pressure,

feeling like it’s going to blow.