She gazed
at the lens
not with rage
nor sorrow, not again.

This time
is hers.
Strong, sublime;
she conquers.

Controls the pain,
walks her own path.
Determined again;
Keeps life in her grasp.

I know her only through another’s lens;
I weep, and embrace visions of a friend.

————–
[Thank you for the opportunity
to be witness to a fight
which so deeply moves me.]

To see part of the upcoming breast cancer photographic documentary “Relearning Loveliness”, go to my friend’s website: http://www.nityiadesign.com

An editor
said I’d have to pay her
to read a work of mine;
she wouldn’t do me a favor.

So I replied
with a deep and heavy sigh:
“The payment lies
in the ability to read it;
The feeling’s worth far more than cash
when you need it.

Wouldn’t you agree
with me
on that philosophy?
(tee hee hee!)”

She still awaits
her money.

CyranoWriter burned his thumb because of this fire

Hatchet, fir wood, firebox

Fir is cut into 18 inch logs instead of 16 inch logs … meaning they can’t fit straight into the fireplace. Thus, I burnt my thumb!

I burnt my thumb!
I feel so dumb!
But I also have to say
I singed my wrist yesterday!

The logs we cut
do not fit
in the firebox!
(that’s the size of it!)

A 16 inch cut
will, of course,
let me put wood straight in
without using force!

But these logs were sawed
by some hand unseen
after they were felled
to measure 18!

So wrestle, push, pry,
twist, poke, force,
balance and jam must I,
and then, of course,

Sometimes my finger, hand, arm,
or wrist, will slip up and touch
that hot iron box!
“Does it hurt?” “Yeah, pretty much!”

But gas heat is expensive
and the wood, it is free!
Though I’m apprehensive,
we burn the felled trees!

And I have to suffer
and force more wood in;
there is no safety buffer!
I’ll probably burn me again!

Singe my wrist, arm, hand, thumb,
finger, and again feel warm, and dumb!

Epilogue on Valentine’s Day at 11:59 pm

Now that this romantic day
has come and quickly passed,
And I, delaying, didn’t say
what I should, while the sun light cast,

Permit me
finally,
to tell you
my heart, true!

Let me at last say
what I should have said
during Valentine’s Day,
before the sun bled, dead!

All this long, alone, romantic day through,
I have thought of and missed only you.

Let me be the first
to wish you,
in rhyme and verse,
a day romantic and true.

Let me be the one
to unveil, on this day,
like the red dawning sun,
a radiant bloom’d bouquet!

Though not of cheerful daffodil,
nor lilacs (smelled, seen, not heard!)
Not of sweetest rose, nor orchid’s fragrant thrill:
This flowery bunch is made of words!

For though these words* new from fingers start,
they’ve long been growing within my heart!

*thoughts