Poetry

Works of verse

So Thick Your Fear

Run me ragged and drag

me through the gate

and lock me up, order

me to stay

the way I am

even while this tightness

makes my chest expand

I try to tell you

that I need to be trusted

but you can’t hear me so thick

is your fear

that it cuts off our love.

With all my soul

I will myself

to understand

but my anger rises

like a tide that will sweep

me away from you. I tried

to tell you that I needed freedom

and you locked me up and lost

the key to our love

in your lack of faith,

and I change

the way that you said I would,

but if you had stayed close to my heart

we could have grown together

instead I grow alone,

I grow apart,

until I am gone.

Hues (Memories of Africa)

Liquid orange silver sliding;

clichéd crimson sky and still

more lovely than a postcard.

Tinted lilac firelit granite

crinkles, smiling, at the sun

shadowed smoky grazes stretch.

Rumpled sheets of powdered ice cream

gently stained by molten gold

sculpted quartz by careless feet.

 

Rippling panes of tufted tundra:

terracotta pastel-fired

sharp mosaics of thirsty loam.

Cold-still branches soak the sunlight

dappled brown from burlap-greys

silent in the crystal haze.

Blinkless, bloodwashed, bloated, blazing

daylight heaves into the sky

burning whitewashed morning brown.

Come and Play With Me

Come out to play with me

I’m ready for your entity to shift

And take it lightly for a while

 

I’m on the radio

The waves are crashing into shore

And moving all your pukka shells along

 

Come dance the night with me

And taste the free breeze as it sees

Its way into the corners of our hearts

 

Don’t fear the coming day

The dark is brighter anyway

No need to see it’s just the two of us

Barely Remember

Dearest Granddaddy,

I barely remember you.

All I have are

The slices of your voice,

Images of you drinking your Jack Daniel’s

Every day at 4 o’clock,

Sharp.

I miss you,

I wish I could have learned from you

With your pens and papers,

Newspapers and editorials,

If only you could have survived life.

Mothering Kind

I was thinking

of donating

my ovaries;

They are of no use to me.

 

Let some other willing

lady

flower the earth

with babies,

 

(much like a dandelion

scattering seeds).

 

Shower me with scorn;

I stand firm in my decision.

 

I am not the mothering kind.

An Observation on Perception

Yesterday

I was walking

Downtown.

At one point

I looked up

Across the street,

And I saw a little boy

Drop his bottle on the sidewalk

At the base of the Woodman Tower.

He bent down in front of a

Mammoth marble pillar;

Then, giggling wildly,

Was plucked from the ground

And danced in a circle

By an energetic mother.

And the whole time

He never

Looked up,

Completely oblivious to the

Thousands of feet of

Concrete and glass

Towering

Above his tiny head.

 

And I thought to myself,

Hey baby,

I think we’ve all

Been there.

Pattern of Forgiveness

The night is yours alone—

Shadows gawk through darkness—

You uphold dignity in your stance,

A simple smile.

 

We all hurt inside—

We all let loneliness wash over.

Restraints we set for ourselves

Are broken by others.

 

A faded tissue here to hold—

Blanketed by tears of remorse.

Every faint sound—every motion…

Becomes a pattern of forgiveness.

 

Light cracks through shadowed blinds—

Once again…

My eyes shut,

Waiting for dreams.

Always

We came, we came,

I don’t know why,

It wasn’t just to watch the sky,

The spinning step and hidden path,

I thought with such a tired heart,

Every breath would be my last,

Compared to you I have no past.

The moon, the stars,

We claimed them ours.

Life of Birds

their eyes don’t need to pierce cloud

wings don’t have to be told to extend

see how they coax the wind into submission

 

watch them tumble in harnessed waves of sky

their silent agreement

in effortless flight

 

their grace lands with them

sinks into the earth as they struggle to walk

 

children chase them back into the clouds

watching their small bodies soar

wishing more than ever that they had been birds

 

the blades of their wings

scar the mountains, the hills

yet they flinch upon the movement

 

of the white blouse in the window

the young woman who holds a wineglass to her ear

and listens

 

for the husky whisper

of crows’ wings navigating the fog

but there are no branches here for them

no perch where they might curl their toes

where she could study the darting blues and purples

on their backs

 

where can they go to avoid setting foot

on the rocky ground

upon which they are destined to stumble

 

we pray

let there always be a gentle sea

an uplifting wind

a forest lush with lazy years

 

the gulls cry out

where can they go

the waves are churning

earthward

The Human Condition

A small

invisible

sun

lights a glass cube

in which stands

a little man

casting his own

small

shadow.