Thursday, July 23, 2015

Better Left Unsaid

And who made you mother of the world? girl,
you had to learn compassion at an old age
and only gave it to your children; you never thought twice
about what you can do for others, but how others can forward

your brood; as spoiled rotten as you, big attitudes,
don't act like you don't know the truth.
It feels like rolled rocks, like five years
of a bad habit, losing balance, 
scraping hands and trying to grab a rope but miss -- miss -- missing
an old friend who slammed a door in your face, like
how rare is forgiveness in the world, and how easy
when you only mean the best, to sometimes spill and tear
apart that which you tied in another's heart, yes--

but perhaps we're both naive; at once all-seeing
and blind. We cannot know ourselves as others do; how can we be
perfect, with nothing to measure up to, except our own pasts
and perceptions that arise and change; we are not
built to last

Saturday, June 20, 2015


The tree came out of the ground like a tower.
It struck the earth, like a mighty scepter.
The tree stood
impenetrable. It arose and became
a guardian, giving home to an eagle's nest;
its roots like anchors, it shielded
the smaller creatures, and drifting down,
its leaves became poems, touching the ground
and igniting fire.
The tree came
from within. The heart bloomed
like the woods. Winter shied away
and spring flooded the wilderness.
All that lay dormant

Monday, May 11, 2015

The dark thing lurks in my vision corners
the dark thing paces
beyond the doorway


why sad, young swallow
sloping playground, driving wind, downwind
your brothers fly far across field.

why sad, little swallow
sitting lonely on a branch in the the school yard
as downy skies accumulate overhead

sad swallow, fly strong
across field and fence; the wind picks up
your wings, just to drop you
for joy to the grass; with a cry
you spin upward, skyward, darting through turbulence,
denying the first drops of rain.