Friday, April 14, 2017
The-mother-of-all-bombs hit Afghanistan,
isn't mother-bomb an oxymoron?
While in a meeting to plan a new poetry collection,
an exciting beginning,
fresh voices to be shared, poems in 12 point font,
a glossy cover,
to crack my depressed mood, to widen my narrow life,
to distract me from the dark of American politics.
Talk of the call for submissions, start dates,
stapled versus bound,
decisions made, they seemed important,
until I glanced at my phone, saw the news,
hopelessness is like the-mother-of-all-bombs.
Thursday, April 13, 2017
My tears swell without release,
like waves tease the shore,
a watched pot refuses to boil.
They marinate my soul,
leak around my edges.
I fidget with anxiety,
Dark as a thunder cloud,
a reservoir for another day...
Monday, April 10, 2017
The bonsai tree for artistic contemplation,
the lotus foot to attract courtly gentlemen,
errant branches snipped,
small bones snapped
for beauty's sake.
The well-behaved child does as told,
she molds to the shape of their words,
dreams of the wild and the unnamed.
Thursday, April 6, 2017
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
Sometimes the simple, the familiar
escape the hard-wiring,
on the run, secreted,
Praying for neural fire,
seconds drag, minutes frantic,
drowning in blankness, grasping air,
searching for what can be described,
but can not be named.
Monday, April 3, 2017
Sunday, March 19, 2017
The struggles to balance
passion and discipline,
the sacrifices to the gods
who exact muchness,
yet bestow a fragile fame,
to the disillusion
of the looking glass,
smoke, haze, a few too many,
half a breath frosting