Me and Martin Scorsese

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http://www.freespeech.org/

The Journey

by Trudy Osteen Crow

Sometimes,
I regret the road not taken.

It's gentle bends and curves

somehow
come to haunt my dreams

and make me wish
I could
go back to follow it all the way

rather than take that step 

into the brambles

and through dark woods 

to where I am today.

The journey would not have been so hard 

and bruises would be fewer 

but would I like the person each time
I viewed that face in the mirror?

Would my travels have been so smooth

and so unfraught with pain that 

the face I wake to see each day 

would bear another name?

The answer is one I will never know.

It is not mine to divine

so all that is left is to stay the course

and be grateful for the sun.

Death in the Afterglow

By Trudy Osteen Crow

She lies spent, wet,

after a crazy round of neon sex

with “rooms available”  

blinking

inside her head.

Blink.

BLINK!

Reaching for a cigarette,
momentarily, she forgets 

that she no longer smokes

‘til her hand returns

from the bedside stand

Holding only emptiness

She wonders,

What the hell!

Had she been drinking?

Earlier?  At the bar?

Jose?  Patron?

Does it really matter which one?

Throb!

THROB.

Her juices pulse to the beat.

Blink.

BLINK!

Her dull heart thuds

Drumming waves of blood

through her engorged head.

Her body is lead.

Ping.

PING!

Her conscience rings like sonar

sounding depths in an ocean channel

while waves of satisfaction crest

against the beachhead of her pelvic floor.

Darkly,

through the looking-glass, 

she sees.

A warm body twined 'round hers

that does not belong

to the matching silver band

like the one which adorns

the third finger of her left hand.

Blink!

BLINK.

A child is born every seven seconds

according to the U.S. Census

A death occurs every thirteen.

How odd.

She thinks

as neon lights

blink!

BLINK.

Strayed

by Trudy Osteen Crow

Love leaned
then snapped
us back
like the spring
of an old screen door
Back -
to hearth
and home
Back -
to lukewarm

STORMS

Suddenly,
Rain
fell in
torrents
leaving behind
the Scent
of slow
DECAY
along with the 
PROMISE
of new
beginnings

Heart STUNG

Does he ever feel her hand in his

or see her in a passing face
or wish that it were her embrace

that lays him down at night?

Does he look up at the stars above

and think of the girl who he once loved
and of all the dreams and plans they'd made

before being swept apart by fate?

Does she slip into his dreams unbid?
Does he feel her arms? Her legs? Her kiss?
Her heart thumping wildly against his chest

as if it were Summer of '65?

And LOVE?

Oh, how love was sweet!

in his '59 Impala's red-leather seats
on a cul-de-sac to a yet-named street,
to a Carolina girl and her Georgia guy -

whose hand's imprint she feels in hers

as though it were yesterday -

So young -
that girl whose heart was stung
by a Tech "Yellow Jacket" wearing madras plaid.

And although years and youth have passed
that sting still lasts . . .
and lasts . . .
and Lasts