Friday, August 22, 2014

If they gunned me down

Photo from Internet images. 





If they gunned me down,
ripping through my head,
would they leave me there
for dead, afraid my years would
would snatch them up?
Is walking in these old white bones
crime enough?

Everybody knows how they are.
I'm not prejudiced, but...
old white women, capped
and dyed and tucked!
You can't disguise deceit.
They're Dangerous, not Us.

Would they let me bleed,
if they gunned me down
because I'm white and old?
Would I lie there dead and cold,
and would they ever see
a human heart shot through?

If they gunned me down
If they gunned me down,
you?





I saw this quote on Unvirtuous Abbey: "For those who say, 'I'm not prejudiced but...,' Let us pray!"

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Circa '62

Circa '62

Through a trapdoor
down steep stairs
on the dirt floor,
beside some dusty shelves, 
it stands: a rusted can 
as tall as we are tall.
Even with the cover tight,
the odor fills the room,
and in the dim light,
we swoon in yeasty haze.
We fill our cups
and dare to tip them up,
secret in our ways,
these heady home brew days.


Thursday, August 7, 2014

Peace Song



Peace Song



Someday, we sing of peace
as shadows sing,
as wind.
The cherry blossoms still;
yellow birds sit branches.
Heaven holds its breath.
Someday, we sing again
of peace,
as shadows sing. 
As wind.





This poem is written on the 69th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. God help us.



Sunday, July 27, 2014

Prompt, Me


PROMPT, ME


Write about the stars, you said,
The Tour de France, how music looks
If you can see the sound.

I draw short rays, points of dust,
A spiral then a snail
Atop a bug. And clouds.

I've settled now,
Into this sack of bones. Where I want
Is where I go.

I can no more prompt me
Than I can stop the sparks 
In the eye of this winged pig caught in a net 
Of my making.




Monday, July 14, 2014

Prayer of the Soil




VanGogh














Let me not be rocky ground,
parched and cracked, burned by sun
green then yellowed, bitter, brown,
all good intent, but fallow, shallow.

Let me not be choking weeds,
grasping, climbing, blocking sun
roots that run, smother seeds,
thick and high, but sticking, pricking.

Let me, God, be fertile soil,
tilled and plowed, enriched by sun,
abloom with wheat, embody royal
Word made flesh to flourish, nourish.



Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Mourners Come and Go


 


Mourners
come and go,
come and go.

The ones I know
sit alone in
separate rows.

We're all of us
alone as we come
and as we go

to and fro,
to and fro,
alone, alone,

all, all alone
as we come,
as we go.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Morning, Royal


         Photo credit unknown Internet source. (Please let me know if it is yours.)


Morning, royal
the finest time of day.   
Sitting at my work,
I watch and wait
for the world to show her
magic: trees not trees
and then, they are.
Looking from my book,
already I see leaves
now greenish,
in the time to form these words, 
now golden glow.
Alchemy: darkness into leaden grey to gold.
Above the hills, azure sky.
Time for me, too, to turn,
my finer self dissolved by morning light, 
into baser things:
earth and air to
breath and blood.
Transmuted in the dark,
I turn, return, to clay 
in brighter light of day.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

What Lingers



WHAT LINGERS


What lingers

When all is said --

Not words or even breath --

When all is done --

Tools in the shed,
Crusted Gloves 
Drying on the shelf --

Creation, dying cell by cell.
Even pruning
Asks too much,

When all is said.

When all is done --

This shell.

Friday, May 9, 2014

Mother's Day

Painting, Mary Cassatt


"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
"  -- Kahlil Gibran


This poem is for my children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews, those who have flown, are testing their wings, and those still in the nest. I love you all. 



MOTHER'S DAY


Your breath on my cheek
My neck, cold when you leave

My arms, suddenly light,
Raised in thanks and praise.

I learn from the birds.

Relentless in their task,
They feed their young until at last --

I shade my eyes 
Against the endless sky

And watch you fly.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

One More Day


Blue as the sea, Sierra Madres rim Bandaras, bay of flags. 

Mist bruises the mountains not yet burned by sun.

Time for us to go, even though the colors hold like glue; 

magnolias and wild flowers beckon.

One more day, you sing. 

One day more I sing in chorus.

In days, the sea will be a spectre,

pirated colored glass the only reminder of paradise,

fossil, flesh, and sand.