Rheumatic Stigmata

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The bed creaks like your bones
that moan and groan
that slow grind through clenched teeth,
that need between the sheets

~

It’s August now
as cold as it gets here in Winter.
I’m buying an electric blanket
to warm you through; least I run you through
with my lasciviously pointy finger!

Still, I wrap my legs
around your freezing appendages,
making a spoonful of sugar
while you lick the cream
from your Cheshire ūüėÄ

I can’t help but bear your stubborn,
stoic Far North Queenslander pride;
pleasured simplicity, complicit
with your Will to burn the wick
at both ends, ajoint screaming
a string of profanity

In Summer, I knead
your splintered lamb shank
while you shovel nutrition down
with a tincture of mindfullness,
layer upon layer of oil, and Green Tea
setting the scene for a modern beer

I find it hard, to watch your tenacity
come face to face with Dachau – Grim
barking out his contempt
while she ducks for cover in sewage…

We have to make the trip worthwhile
or its all for naught; she signs a cross
Pope John Paul II raised the host
because he had all the respect in the world

for Mary.  Sometimes I wonder
what will become of our inheritance
if the light at the end of the tunnel
really is another oncoming train?

We have to find a way through
our fragile past lives where we would
seethe on the outside and cower on the in,
if it weren’t for temperance; sharp edges constrained by blunt force trauma

In the meantime, I heat the purple wheat bag in the microwave
laying it carefully between the sheets

You know I love you most when you least expect it

© Copyright 2015, Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

RE BLOGGED on Dream Big Dream Often

Fringe Factor

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I am on the fringe
my destiny intertwined
money & lust
existence
paving a way for my future

I am loved
unconditionally.

he doesn’t presume
to try to control me
directly
indirectly I don‚Äôt know –
sometimes I feel bereft;
a single cell amoeba
searching
for another sign
of life

solitude
my friend & my enemy
co-exist;
uncertainty
at every new juncture
jeers in contempt
I am frozen in fear
for falling
& failing
humiliation burning
into my face
to spite me

ungracious
in pursuit of happiness
I take no prisoners
perhaps my journey
is my destination?
isolation & separation
inextricably linked,
pseudo relationships
taking precedence

lonely street’s
with or without corners
smoothing my transition

in the distance,
no picket fence to define me
or winter garden
or fire escape

I digress, sadly.
inner sanctum’s
flawed by design
serve only to mimic my life

contentment
knows no bounds

¬© Copyright 2012, Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Mother Natures Siren Song

a cold front over
night over
cast skies

ushers in
much needed
rain caught breath

Swallow Hollow Road
the Appalachians
followed

where I found
Mother Natures
siren song irresistible

/

tough Winter months
out of season
tempered;

farmers
make hay
while the sun shines

drought stricken pastures
threaten exposed
beams

general
stores fall victim
to the March of time

the old farmhouse stands
abandoned; creaks
decay

E-tsi
E-ho-li re-claims
back-broken ground

/

young people leave
the older folks
behind

inside
green towers
concrete pockets – split

/

driving down the back roads
his breath is taken
away;

toughness
and determination
of early settler caravans

rugged mountain terrain
today, sky city
frontier’s

new calls
of the wild wind
temporarily finding view

voices echo through the trees
whispering memories
lingering in the past

© Copyright 2010 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Inspired by the article ¬†The March of Time by Chip ‘Rocketman’ Allen

Boudoir

A green duvet and me
blue
Eeyore pyjamas missing a button

a gaping hole my solar plexus

books scattered
carpeted
the bed and the floor
three phones waiting
a clock ticking
a red candelabra
standing tall
white scented candles
mirrors and paintings

reflected image incomplete

a red slip
pillows
a thick winter coat, disembodied
folded towels
soft toys and clothes, strewn

careless

tissues not too far away
the bedside table ready
slatted curtains not really curtains at all
shafts of light
penetrating
my wheat-bag purple and warm

comforting

Klimts Women is wide open
to ‘The Kiss’
at the foot of my bed

© Copyright 2007 Jodine Derena Butler. All Rights Reserved

Mourning Tree

I muse onward full circle
still the dead whisper in my ear;
memories of ghosts torn asunder

I am left wandering

in silence our journey continues
to unfurl, tapping the undergrowth
like an
ancient drum
the wind caressing me windy
breathing words of comfort

I feel your voice
in the silence I resist tears
drawing power from the familiar
and yet unknown.
it is not my time

mistakenly I bend to embrace
a small child, bedraggled in the mire.

defying clay and rock
a river, the source of all that is
to return me to my self
my branches burst – thaw
seeping into treelike veins
my body aches to warm.
you turned your back

I am left behind in you

wounded.  afraid.
I snatch a quick glance
in your direction, damp
eyes I remember;
the dark is lonely without light

in spite of me
my gnarled roots continue to bore
deep into the earth, and live
still I make no sound.
the night is cold

I am shivering in my spine.

© 2009 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved