Clank your chains and count your change. Try to walk the line. Did you say your name was Ramblin’ Rose?~Noel Sherman
I tend to enclose flow when I’m hangry
confusing juice for food, gut-stuff angry
so useful for fuel, but it makes me sick
I worry so, intuitive and thick
each electrical connection insists
I pay and though my new training resists
the old ways persist. My suffering, clear,
is ancient. So queer its reach and grip here
in the present I gift myself with tears
allowing the ramble roses and thorns
cut quick in the midst blaring my own horn
in my gentle way. Just look in my eyes
the hurt of your judgmental critique–how you despise–
so here I breathe and tune. Healing demands
a spiral revisit of ships unmanned
abandoned at the harbor. No one hears.
The ghosts alone inhabit these old piers.
Featured image: Peace rose blooming today.