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Collection

He must have a collection
of metal cat food bowls,
that line his den,
that he has stolen
from my back porch.

I curse his name
when I come home
to one less
cat food bowl.

That makes five
that have gone missing.
I know it has to be
Bandit, with his
love of shiny things.

It’s eleven o’clock,
and I’ll catch him in the act;
running off the porch
with a bowl clutched in his tiny hands.

He stares at me
from under masked eyes;
he drops the bowl
and runs up the closest tree;
looking down upon
me in hopes I’ll leave,
so that he can add to his collection.

I sigh and shout,
“Not this time, Mr. Racoon.”

Kim Sealock
7-20-19

Savior

Breathing gets harder
as he strengthens his grip.
The chest tightens, and
the pulse quickens
the mind races into dark corners.

“Remember the mantra.”
Is whispered under the breath,
eyes close in desperate
attempt to bring the mind
back into the light.

His voice screams
inside the mind,
drowning out all rationale.

The stomach turns.
The throat constricts.
The world spins.

“Breathing Exercises.”
In for four beats, hold for seven, out for eight.

Worlds most relaxing song
makes the walls cave-in.

Grab for the headphones.
turning on hard rock
with meaningful lyrics,
it pours into the ears
and fills the mind,
drowning out the static noise
of anxiety.

With each drumbeat,
he loosens his hold,
airways open,
and the pulse regulates.

Eyes close relishing
in the relief music
has given
as it saves the day.

Kim Sealock
8-4-19

Independence Day

Fireworks drown
out the stars,
while an old Ford pickup
waits packed and ready.

I stand gazing,
upon my home of
twenty-plus years,
thinking I would be more prepared.

Home becomes
the parent’s house,
and a strange place becomes home.

Though we can always
“go back home.”

It’s never the same,
our stuff doesn’t litter the corners,
our food isn’t in the fridge, and
our favorite mug isn’t in the cabinet,
waiting for morning coffee.

We still call it home,
for it’s littered with memories
of our past.

There are pencil marks on the wall
marking how much we had grown over the years.

Pictures of family get-togethers
and our achievements line the mantle.
Proving that we lived there,
handprints in the concrete steps
forever staking our claim on this home.

I turn to start a new chapter in my life,
looking forward to making a strange place home.
I always know that my heart will be here,
with the pencil marks, the mantle of photos,
and the little handprint on the steps with K.S. and ’95 beside it.

The fireworks drown out the stars,
as an old Ford pickup, drives away.

Kim Sealock
7-27-19

Taste of Green

The taste of green
is rainwater and dirt,
like that of a cucumber
fresh from the garden.

The taste of green
is crisp and refreshing,
like a salad in
the dog days of summer.

The taste of green
is sweet droplets of
kiwi juice running down
one’s chin.

The taste of green
is the bitter aftertaste
of lime, clinging to the
taste-buds.

The taste of green
is a deep inhale
after the grass
has just been cut.

Kim Sealock
7-21-19

Going it Alone

How can I be an outcast
in a group of people, where
we all have something in common?

Though I managed it.

Standing in the corner,
taking it all in.
The young and the old,
the ones that want to be there,
and the ones that would rather be reading a book in their den.
The ones that look the part
and the ones who make you wonder why?

I stand and observe,
wondering why the staff
are the only ones talking to me?

The lights lower, and I join the group to see the show.

I enjoy the show lonely in the middle row.
Swaying and singing along.

Walking back I wonder,
do I illicit a don’t talk to me vibe?

Do I love
being alone that much,
that other people can sense it?

Drinking in the hotel bar,
the place where lonely people are supposed to meet.

I make eye contact,
people instantly
advert their gaze.

I smile a shy smile,
relishing in, the fact
that I like to be alone.

Kim Sealock
7-6-19

Changing Lanes

Nostalgia burns the eyes
as it plucks one’s heartstrings
to a familiar tune of a forgotten melody,
that gets stuck in our heads,
and we hum along
though we don’t know the words.

At first, one’s stomach sinks with the news
that things are changing,
and the realization that leaving home
is permanent this time.

We forget the tight embrace community has
until it comes together,
to wish us good luck on impending journeys,
and to help us up as life knocks us down.

We forget our impact
until someone presents us with a life touched
by our kindness and a smile.

We forget that people care
until we see it,
gifts of farewell for remembrance,
the cracking voices,
the miss you’s, the thank you’s,
the welling of tears in the corners of eyes.

Nostalgia hurts
even when it’s feeling better
because we can never relive the past,
only remember it
as it gradually fades into nothing but a memory.

Kim Sealock
4-18-19

Do As I Say!

“Do as I say,
Not as I do!”

It’s the new philosophy of the world.

People publicly shame
while committing the same.

Caught!

“Do as I say,
Not as I do!”

Mistakes make us human,
though we are shunned
by our neighbors, our families, people we considered friends.

Cause we did as they do
And not as they say.

Honesty is the best policy,
though we are taught to lie
between fake smiles.

“Do as I say,
Not as I do!”

Some watch and judge,
though a higher power
tells them not to.

“Do as I say,
Not as I do!”

A parent teaches
the New Generation,
though they fall into the same.

It’s the new philosophy of the world.

“Do as I say,
Not as I do!”

Kim Sealock
1/7/19

In Terms of SMS

You read in terms of SMS.
You speak in terms of lols and idks.
You interact through an iridescent screen.
That cause you not to sleep at night.
You react in modern-day pictographs.
You swerve as you hear the bings of your popularity.

That will always be false.
Everyone will love you in a moment and hate you in the next.

Never let your fear fuel your passion.
Being different is ok.
It’s ok not to be the same.
We are who we are.
Never question it…just roll with it.

Kim Sealock
10/18/18

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