the grocer doesn’t talk to
the mailman doesn’t talk to
the teacher doesn’t talk to
the average Joe on the street
they’re all living entire lives
trying to get out of their heads
long enough to get a cup of coffee
they don’t organize protest
rise up in anger they meet
silently exchange goods and
walk off their separate ways
engrossed in what they’re doing
clouds are waves in the book of light
waves are clouds in the book of night
light is night in the clouds of waves
night is light in the waves of clouds
you are clouds in the book of light
i am waves in the book of night
night is light in the book of you
light is night in the book of me
tell me what you see in the book of light
i’ll tell you what i see in the book of night
When we lived in the East
everyday I fought the mountains.
Pulled new stalks off old weeds whose
roots were older than me and the house.
Devised new fencing, containment systems to
keep three generations of deer out of my prideful tomatoes.
Cried to discover they only took one bite of each.
The waste, the waste.
I surrendered when,
after a new netting attempt,
the self-dismembered bodies of two sparrows.
All franticness and tempest.
Caught in the crossfire of my war of attrition with the deer.
The waste, the waste.
perched on the very last pew
left of the aisle
I genuflect to nothingness
no bread, no wine
left of the aisle for this girl
no bread, no wine
The State of Grace is a foreign nation
for this girl
the kind priest asks, “Why?”
I say, “The State of Grace is a foreign nation.
for this girl”
Yet she lives up to her vestments
the kind priest asks, “Why?”
I say, “I cannot love all my neighbors.”
Yet she lives up to her vestments
“I have no love for those in red hats”
I say, “I cannot love all my neighbors
those mourning Charlie Kirk
those in red hats
wavers of that pseudo-Confederate flag
“those mourning Charlie Kirk
those ICEbergs and their subzero mission
wavers of that pseudo-Confederate flag
how can I confess all that I have left undone?
“those ICEbergs and their subzero mission
I dare not kneel at the altar rail
how can I confess all that I have left undone?
my sins of omission?
“I dare not kneel at the altar rail
my arthritic knees will not let me rise
from my sins of omission –
I cannot rise up
“my arthritic knees will not let me rise
I genuflect to nothingness
I cannot rise up
perched on the very last pew.”
she called herself “Sister” no one
knew her name
long ragged skirt tank top bare feet turquise
beads around her neck
some said she dated Dylan in New York yet..here she was in
Key West living in a dilapidated abandoned
boat near the beach
she ran a “free store” where wandering
homeless hippies could leave the burdens of
stuff and take only what they needed.
every night as the perfect orange beach ball of sun descended into
the Gulf of Mexico and everyone on the pier cheered she
produced a tamborine from beneaath her skirt she
danced beating out the blues as she loped and swirled
in a slow mournful syncapation no music necessary
the way she swung her hair could take your breath away
I never spoke
to her…
but wrote her
into a novel so
many years later
I saw the boy at a stoplight, turned
my head for a moment, put the cup
of coffee on the dashboard.
I saw the sadness in his face, eyes
too old. The grass was a brilliant green
and the sun allowed no shadows.
Sounds of the city grew louder,
an old car with a flat tire huddled
next to the playground he stood in.
The light changed to green
and his eyes rose slowly up, up,
to trace a yellow balloon lifted away.
In the forests where pines are thick,
a crow’s call cuts the air, sharp and quick.
Whispers drift through branches wide,
shadows twist, and creep, and hide.
The moon, like silver, stains the sky,
casting marks where shadows lie.
What stirs beneath the ancient boughs,
where darkened limbs and silence browse?
Seek the cry, both near and deep,
where the pines, their secrets keep.
In the crow’s call and the moon’s glow,
what truth awaits where shadows grow?
The dream bark, the settling sigh
The contented plop, the brush against my thigh
The mindful gaze of the border collie eye
The chase of the ball, the joyful flight
The chew of the bone with all her might
The joy of being within her sight
The feel of her muzzle against my chest
Dancing a circle to create a nest
The contented shape of a dog at rest
