Monday, May 15, 2017

Faith and hope



Passed from hand to hand,

the quilt is bleached,

worn, stitches loosening.

Like faith in god,

once shining, strong,

turns tarnished, thinned

by illness, partings,

death, loveless lives.

When callous time halts,

we cling

to random threads of hope.


Friday, May 5, 2017

Missing*


She scans the albums,

images from another time,

when the ticks were even,

like a metronome,

when her heart did not skip,

in rhythm.

Now a stark photo in black and white,

bold print,

her daughter,

one of the missing.

They say over 600 open cases,

mouths full of paper excuses

and stale sympathy,

no comfort to her,

a life of uncertainties,

too few to count.


*April 29, 2017 was declared "Missing Persons Day" by Gov. Terry McAuliffe
of the Commonwealth of Virginia.





Saturday, April 29, 2017

When the magic fades...




The gazing ball promises good luck

to those who tend the garden,

the poet chooses her words carefully,

with her muse.

Time passes, the magic becomes random,

fickle;

weeds sprout wild, choke blooms,

the poet challenged to fashion bouquets

of such rough greenery.



Friday, April 14, 2017

The-mother-bomb



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

Dark as a thunder cloud...



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,

bark impatiently,

compassionless.

Dark as a thunder cloud,

a reservoir for another day...



Monday, April 10, 2017

The shape of things



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

dedicated to Albertine Sarazzin



She wrings the fullness from life,

restlessly;

engulfed, devouring,

she licks the sweet, the sweat;

words

to caress the nape,

to choke the breath;

salve to her wounds,

healing to her soul.