#89 For the Taste of

courtesy t rin

Your mother had a “problem”

Your gramps had one too

but somehow you thought

that just a little taste wouldn’t

ever control you.

they had lacked will power

but you were a different make

you could handle whatever amount you bought

handle every amount it pleased you to take

...there were a few instances,

you would freely admit

that after the day’s end you’d hideaway

just to take a hit,

only after the fact to ponder

why was it you needed to hide...

if indeed you still had a handle on

your well controlled life?

and here you are

as they were

trying to prove to yourself you could do without

but your normal has changed

your body knows this quite well

and all the water you drink can’t shake

this bothersome dryness from your mouth

And here you are

as they were

fingers damp and trembling

ribs that seem tightened with each anxious breath

but never mind all that

you still insist that you don’t need any help

because help would mean

that in the end you were just like them

that you would have a label to confront

...you’d have to confront yourself

but its easier to lie

vaguely through your lips

though if uncensored

they’d have a different story to tell

but the honesty that

breaks your body down would have

to be held for you refuse to ever

call yourself that word

that seems so harsh

and all at once helpless

The word that your body

has already admitted

and here you are shaking

all of you yearning

for the taste of...

refusing to admit you’re

Addicted.

 My Inspiration: Addiction

© KohylahPiper 2016

#13 Islands, Rise.

The same arms that stretched out of a restful night,

sought to give liberty to aged, wooden shutters,

battered by gale force winds more than twice in their lifetime.

Sensitive, round nostrils still twitched at the residual smell of turpentine,

while fingers,

slower and arthritic, felt for the familiar chill of metal braces.

The rusting steel bolts resisted, but eventually cowered under ginger pressure,

and stiff hinges gave way with each worn creak

to misty rays of light, borne from the east,

that mingled with old friends as they slowly progressed,

poignantly aware of their inevitable demise in the west.

Salty sprays from a rowdy ocean become re-acquainted

with the soft breeze, that lulled sea foam into clandestine coves,

and both, forgetting they had met every single day before,

fell into each other’s beauty once again;

quite gently

and came to finally rest over mahogany cheeks…

lingering,

but for a moment.

The scurry of anxious paws, and scratching feet

both known and unknown began their day

under foliage of green and flaxen tones.

Branches that have danced for generations before,

sway in time to the rhythm of life fluttering above,

below and beside them,

anxious to teach their tribal rhythms to generations to come;

but for the moment, their eclectic beats, ever changing in the easy gusts,

enlighten ears protected by a cotton scarf

tied over thick black plaits, greying ever so lightly.

Bright mauve, burnt orange, sky blue.

Colours have risen out of clay and loam,

dew has bathed them, reaching far and wide over limestone.

Fevergrass and sage have begun to cast their spells,

addictively combined with the scent of freshly baked bread;

and as the globe of fire climbs higher, signalling the hour

for once outstretched arms

to till, to plant, to feed

to carry, to guide, to teach;

a flurry of wings will rest,

and from its perch,

a turtle dove will begin

its haunting morning call.

 My Inspiration: A turtle dove singing outside my window (2014) 

© KohylahPiper 2015