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When the boy sits on the tree’s stump at the end of the Giving Tree, I used to think it was sad
because they had both lived their lives and been used up. Then, I grew into a woman and
became a mother. I have despised my trunk, abused my trunk, expected it to stay 16 or 20. But,
just as the trunk of real trees grow stronger and more sturdy as they add rings, so I expanded with
age, strength, and wisdom. I have become a waif no more. I am willing to give my daughter
anything she needs; my apples, my leaves, my branches, even my trunk. But now, as I read Shel
Silverstein’s story to her, and watch the boy haul off what is left of the tree’s body, I pray my
daughter would never demand that I be reduced to a stump, just so that she might sail away.

I hate that I am gaining so much weight,
It’s feeling like I’m losing my grip on fate,
As here and there, I await and debate,
How to turn back learned time.
I need to not burn my rhymes,
Except in my readers minds.
I feel blind and signed,
My fine health away,
Today and every day,
I must realign my mayday to bind,
And reassign my twines of long lines.
But hey, at least I am not confined,
Like a steak, wide eyed and cooked.
Like looked on with a little wine,
Similar to a well-read book.

If I could press my lips to the corners of my eyes
and kiss the lines that laughter made, I would.

I’d stretch my skin three times over to make
space for the marks that love made.

I’d plant gardens in the grooves that gravity gave,
and water every inch of my wild with tears I’ve cried.

I’d set my sun and rise my moon over the horizon
of my hips. Gently colliding my shore and my tide.

I’d keep my belly soft and sweet.
I’d open my lungs and give them more air.

I’d give my hair wings to fly away when invited by the wind.
I’d throw my head back as often as I could.

I’d reverse every mirror so I could see the beauty in myself
that others do.

I’d wrap my arms around as many lovers as this
lifetime grants me.

In every weightless moment,
I wouldn’t hesitate to soar.
In every embrace,
I wouldn’t hesitate to stay.

When others think of me,
I hope they think of the size of my heart
and not the size of my waist
or the weight of my bones.
My body is an earth stretching across
this soul
and if I could give my whole life
just to learn how to love it,
I would.

Curious, I watched Time arrive,
unpacking their belongings and picking out a room.
It was apparent that they intended to stay for a while.
I could not remember inviting them
or even receiving a courtesy knock,
much less a call.
I gazed at the bags both held and under the eyes,
shadows resembling bruises from a fight.
The deep lines were there, and the hair, fading colors,
was replaced by peppered white, washed out like the days.
I wondered what would come next,
with lines crisscrossing and intersecting paths
through this life, this body, this soul.
I thought again, had Time given notice.
No, it was simply here and would not leave.
I did not want to become weak or lose what I had.
Holding on to everything forever seemed impossible
as muscles atrophy and bones become brittle.
I may have forgotten what I was doing here,
and I couldn’t read these lines without my glasses;
a squinting blur is all I know now.
However, my papery skin showed a faint recognition
as I returned to my guest with new cells every seven years.
Is this person a doppelganger
or just the latest clone inhabiting my form, looking back at me?
I walk past the guest room
and check in from time to time.
This guest will never leave me.

Cold unconscious metal
Reflective concentration
Carefully cloned contortions
Cast in curves of concave
Full length spying steelfaces
Hung in private parlours
Viewing fornication
Convex copulation
Such vivid observation
For one so unalive.

Written by,
Maurice Dean Wint

He doesn’t sing or play guitar
By no means a rock-and-roll star
Works with the band out all night
Creates a mood with shades of light

Listen how the words tell time
Paint a picture sing a rhyme
Flip a switch for harmony
Adding blue in memory

Light Man, running to have fun, you let her love go
Light Man, hurt has now begun, now you can know

Light Man, damage far from done, pain is a shadow
Light Man, waiting for the one, one day love will glow

A place a face, on display
Investing love, isn’t easy
The tune of life, plays today
Pray the Lord for a symphony

Hear his story how it’s told
He misses her heart of gold
His regret shows amber red
He can’t take back what he said

Sometimes when they play his song
Starts out right ends up wrong
Showing love in shades of blue
Lets it fade with thoughts of two

When the eyes look at the eyes
It’s always a normal look
But when your look at mine
It’s definitely something else

I feel like there’s no one in the room
Except you, your eyes and me looking at them
My blood pressure goes up
And suddenly down
With no signs of balance

I feel my body going outside the scope of gravity
And realise all what Franklin had said about similarities is true
And your eyes prove Newton wrong
As I fall up in front of them
Not down as that poor apple did

Then I forgot about her and them
About me or him
About where and when
All I see is just you and your adorable eyes

I see scattered messages all over the space of your eyes
I try to collect them
Open them
Read them
Or even translate them into love signs
I always seem to draw blank

I travel through your eyes to the mazes of charm
Trying to manipulate the reality
But whenever I feel I almost got there
Just something or someone interrupts our silence
And a pale smile will be drawn in my face

They are quite bossy
And like twisters, your eyes
I mean I used to read girls eyes
And I used to be a damn romantic
But time has played roughly
So I can’t distinguish your romance
From yours being nice

I admit the fact that I love them
And figured out my level of understanding
Still hasn’t reached the level of your eyes speech
So I got high tonight

I thought might I, could I be able to read messages that your eyes had sent from that point of highness
But I come from my journey with nothing
But confusion

Every time I try to run away from your eyes
I eventually bump into them
Even tonight when I decided not to think of them
I accidentally wrote this poem

She batters around the place with color, light and music seeping through the air-tight windows and bolted door.
Each day presents a body to be painted and dressed for the flurry of moods that she rides upon.
Her voice out paces the singer in the speaker, her sound bouncing through the place.
The cordials of potions stream all over her skin and are thrown like a spray of rain upon the blowing conditioned air.
Her days are happily spent decorating Christmas.
Some artists need recognition-money-critiques, but not this goddess.
When she does emerge from her containment, she struts her stuff all around the sitty sidewalks.
And she beams with each pair of eyes who worship at the painted toes of her beauty.

*Reference to Tennyson’s Lady of Shallot

Read Poem:

You deserved girlhood
But were called a slut
Instead. Smothered in extra
Layers of resentment and
Expectations made from
Plastic dolls with painted
Smiles. You deserved more
Than projection of the
Lives you weren’t allowed
To live. You deserved your
Own mistakes. You deserved
To be more than someone
Else’s—punching bag or
Poor choice or otherwise.
You deserved cartoons and
Clutching to your innocence.
But you were pushed from
Their fantasies and perversions
Unprompted or informed, just
So they could say they were
Right. And now you grab
Your childhood in quick, tiny
Handfuls, angry and ravenous.

On the Landing, by Eileen Moynihan

A man in a tweed coat climbs the stairs,
We meet on the landing and lock eyes,
We recognize each other’s soul,
A special man who draws me in.
I feel a connection deep and sincere,
In that moment our love is real.
We reach forward to connect,
For a touch longed for so much;
But someone comes, and I hide
Him in the dark room beside me.
When I go to open the door,
He pulls me in and we embrace;
I melt in his arms for an eternity,
In the dark room,
Beside the landing,
At the top of the stairs…

And then I wake…