My daughter, mine,
though you live
thousands of miles away
sleep safe, my daughter mine.
Though you live
where a man caresses a weapon of war as he plots
to drill death into hundreds as he walks down a street,
sleep safe, my daughter mine.
Though you live
where freedom should ring
yet a state ties you hostage in righteous ropes of religion,
sleep safe, my daughter mine.
Though you live
where you must sell your body
to feed your children,
sleep safe, my daughter mine.
Though you live
where no one, no law will protect you
from the monster who sleeps beside you,
sleep safe, my daughter mine.
Though you live
where you have no voice,
where you die in the custody of morality police,
where you can disappear with no outcry to echo behind,
sleep, sleep safe, my daughter mine.
Morning drifts
away with chores
I assign myself:
The must do, the needs to be done—
An endless list to fill a notepad
next to the calendar:
Feed the dogs,
Clean and fill the hummingbird feeders,
Change the sheets,
Do the ironing,
Neatly fold the sheets from the dryer
so they align perfectly on the shelf in the closet--
Leave no time to think.
Even less time to feel.
Keep all thoughts,
All feelings at bay.
Use the list like a whip and a chair.
Let no old cliché hold any sway.
Whip the old “nothing ventured, nothing gained”
into a new pose of Nothing ventured, nothing lost
upon the circus stand,
a much easier creature
to manage this way.
golden promises
shimmer in summer’s sunlight
somehow cozy now
think eternity
somehow cozy, snuggled in
velvet lined starlight
as
earth turns toward fall
no comfort of faith
within Fatima’s secrets
Winter exists in this quiet realm:
The place of spring dreams
where from rich loam
colors emerge vibrant,
as if hope, become a virgin,
offered her hand
to lessen Winter’s ache
enough the wounded reach
to touch without wounding
in the trying.
merge with the unrepentant sky,
learn the truth, the reasons why
suffering and fear and hatred abound,
feeding upon human souls,
destroying what Nature did so elegantly design,
the beauty of humanity
from the inside out--
until we are devils,
our mouths foaming blood-tinged froth
while our claws fill with sinew torn
from our innocent brethren,
who different from us,
are deemed worthy only of hate—
and the earth turns
on its axis of destruction
in an unrepentant sky
as any God that be cries.
An odd creature,
powers through a day,
decades, a life.
A four chambered
survivalist beast,
outlasting all fracturing
cracks of grief
when the spirit, will, mind
drift away.
In imitation,
a four chambered thing
beats on and on.
A few minutes every day,
at times, stretching into hours,
I write to you
in this book,
writing words
whispering mysteries
of the winds in the mountains.
At times, my words still,
shifting, settling then sighing
as moonstone white clouds rest,
caressing the tops of mountains.
I have burned hundreds
of ink filled books
over these many years
when disgusted with
the imperfection
of my scribbled pages.
The heat of their fires
never offered much warmth.
Now, I save my scribble filled books
though you may never see them.
Forty-five years,
I have written words to you,
yet you never knew,
and neither did I
until this moment.
Dreams
fulfilled and abandoned,
the wistful whimsical ones of fantasy--
Tears
fallen,
dried long ago, leaving salt crusts behind,
and those never allowed to fall--
The skins of selves I used to be
the wounded and scarred
the shrunken down inside her skin
the sacrificial to survival--
Take these things
I freely give,
adding all
my wishes
my dreams
my hopes
for you.
Next,
Add all you want,
all you dream,
all you desire,
wish for and hope for
in your life
Then weave of them a chrysalis
bout yourself to cushion and protect
as you grow into your own skin.
Leave your chains of fear,
your yoke of worries
with me.
I will bury them
deep inside my chest.
When you emerge,
your wings wet and beautiful,
you may perch upon
the branch of pride
growing from my soul
to flex and flutter your wings
until dry enough to fly,
beautiful as you have always been,
never to shrink
or curl away
your wings again.
This is an older poem that I’ve dusted off and changed around a little. The end is entirely new but in keeping with the hike in Colorado that inspired it. I was so struck by seeing the one tree leaning upon the other I did not think to whip out my phone to take a picture of the sight. In that moment of observation of the trees, it seemed a violation to do so.
In the woods
two trees stand,
equally rooted,
firmly in the ground.
Yet, as if deciding
it a curse of solitude
to try and touch a Sky
who never reached back,
one turned
to touch the other,
leaning its trunk
against its forest mate’s.
And so, I found them,
standing as lovers,
one resting upon the other,
limbs entwined in embrace.
I lowered my head
out of respect mingled
with a bit of embarrassment
at glimpsing their
beautiful intimacy.
I turned,
walked down the trail,
crunching dried leaves
beneath the fall of my heavy boots
as I continued on among the trees
in silence and solitude.
It is the time
of grey skies
and dead brown grass
along the roadsides.
The time when the trees
are seen shivering,
their limbs quivering in their nakedness.
When even many of the evergreens drip down
brown, bloodied from the lethal knife wounds
of a sharpened frenzied freeze
as they sag into their deaths.
Yes, it is that time of year
when I yearn
for the green of spring,
for limbs to wrap myself within,
for a renewal of promises
I once longed to make.
The time of year
when I empty forty years
of myself.
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 