Crumpled rags of color--

crumpled rags of color

deep, velvet red

pale, soft pink

warm yellow

jumbled together

rose petals

half-dry

a sweet, sickly smell

5/6/01

Civility is a cruel master

Civility is a cruel master

locked up

would you care

to join me in my silence

my polished still acquiesence

locked up, like me

in a chamber of fury

every man

every woman

every child

my master

the meek suffer

and the brash inherit the earth

2/8/01

(There are definitely still times I wish I didn't have to be polite to people)

Chinaberry Blossom

chinaberry blossom

write it

write it with gold ink

and purple perfume

this is the scent of spring

spring in the harsh brown hills

green

grass and undergrowth

tree and vine

write in curling choreography

and pale green hue

this is the color of spring

spring in the dull grey hills

wind puffs

dancing in the brush

write them in blue

write with the lightest of touch

these are the thoughts of spring

spring in the still hot hills

water

dewdrop and rain

small streams rippling

write in thick strokes

in water-white and the yellow of sun

this is the feel of spring

spring in the dry dead hills

3-25-2000

Broken Heart--

broken heart

and from it sweet perfume

divinity nears

the disillusioned one

and becomes, as us, a broken heart -

then you

without succor of joy

shall find in the outpouring

precious myrrh

(you do realize some of these don't mean anything. I just like the sound of words)

Anna is not here--

Anna is not here

she is safe in a silent world

there is no one else there

no one

Anna is not here

only her shell

silently obeys

and hears

she is far away

where no one laughs

at her

no one jeers

at her

Anna is not here.

     Inspired by Anna is Still Here by Ida Vos

After Reading Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Who has not dreamed

of flight?

not with the aid of machine

and contrivance

but soaring winged man

above the clouds.

Thus did those dead

create

a heaven where the resurrected

fly

and angels clad in white

bring to eternity

our souls and give them

movement

7-19-1999

(I'm dating some of these in my own defense. Bear in mind I was born in 1982...or maybe 1983...and make allowances)

We balance our words like lances--

We balance our words like lances

metal-tipped, smooth wood.

we throw…

A miss!

They skim through the air

side by side

arrows pointing at nothing.

too bad we never aim

straight

true

clean.

Then we could feel the piercing light

of understanding speech.