31 May 2006


I could sleep with your fingers inside me
I whispered
I could kiss you 'till the end of time.

I could look at this clear blue sky
and only see your eyes and I could stare
through mountains to get a glimpse of your smile.

I'm walking in a waking dream
I see images of you in the pool
of my coffee, your name on my dashboard
your whole being in the interstice of time.
I just can't count the seconds fast enough
until I really see you, really feel you
under the sun, in my arms, your lips on mine
making solid the ghost of you
who haunts me in my days.
My Son

Birds in flight
have no creation
bigger than mine
this child
just because he has no wings
doesn't mean
he can't fly.

He is my greatest poem
yet only I can read him.
I haven't written any war poems in awhile, or, more accurately, peace poems. Is this any time for poems anyway? Who reads them, who cares, who really makes a difference, or even a living from words, short words, long words, in proper placement, or haphazardly spread around, does it really matter what words we use? We are at war. People die each day and it is our will. By our, I mean collectively as a nation, though I don't like to be connected to this nation's reality. A thunderstorm here in my neck of the woods turns me blue, I can't garden anymore, yet on the other side of our Earth people dig holes in the ground to plant their loved ones, water them with tears. A single teardrop is lost, but a nation of them creates a global storm.
Birthing the sacred woman
See how she's grown
From empty-vesselled innocent
To full-bellied, tired and spent
What fire awaits her body's glow
To push bone against bone in that slow
Transition from woman to mother
Embodiment of power no other
Will love laboriously into being
A small, sacred body fleeing
Red-wombed house of mirth
To milk, mother, Earth.