About Last Frida (a poem of sorts)

A resume of a special night of Open Mic:

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Gentle music eased the tension
and a soft voice
turned a piece of barb wire

into a foot massage from a lover
who's watching some old western.

Being late for the first time
a foreign tongue continued
and touched six strings
that could make people float.

The rhythm picked up

and eyes started to glimmer
and hands to clap
to suddenly stop
when the assassin arrived

to make them laugh aloud
before yesterday was gone

and a saint turned into a poet

from shakespearean days
towards the feelings
of a lonely sun in pain.

No soul should be a stranger
and stories need to be told.

Even when they wear a mask
and get stoned in Amsterdam,
producing a numb grin
that gets lit at 3AM,
telling stories in line with the clock.

Strong stuff!

That's fragile
like cotton candy in the rain,
comprised of the tears of men,
not afraid to show emotions
and drop a tissue on the floor,

trying to feel its pain,
trying not to edit
the words that come to you,
telling you about Golden Angels
dropping the bomb:
'Jesus wasn't happy!'

Surprisingly enough
everybody laughs
and mentally gets a cookie
- unblessed -
with all our loved ones
in our hearts
even if they didn't love us.
Which is okay
because there's many fish in the sea
and you can't even tell their gender!

It's okay to be angry
and to make it last.

It feels good to be in love
with love.

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Want to read (more of) my short stories? My author page: Terrence Weijnschenk at Amazon