Daughter

Daughter, I've misplaced you
In the bustle of my life
I've mislaid you
there was never enough time
never enough...

It makes scant difference now.

The things I would have taught you
the memories to share
mean nothing now to me but broken dreams
of a daughter who will never be.

Tide

Gentle swells the sea
inviting me,
she beckons
wave after wave of promise
Gentle, she will wash away
the Salt of my tears
the tang of my fears
In saltier, gentle waves

I wade in

Cold, bracing,
I gasp,
rush of life
embrace the passing of my strife
to the deep embrace
of the salt sea

Ah, but she lies,
fickle Mistress
Cold-hearted Bitch.

Her once-gentle swells
pound me
grind me
press me back
and birth me on the sandy shore,
then roll again to her bossom
beckoning
as I lay spent upon the beach

With Tiny Hands

With tiny hands
they touched our hearts
they filled our lives with joy
and stayed not nearly long enough,
those little girls and boys

Born too sick and born too soon
we did all that we could stand
and though we wanted them to stay
it wasn't in God's plan

We remember each and every face
each cry, each little hand
And wish them peace and endless grace
in Our Father's golden land

Traction

I was a child in traction,
Pulled against the weight of greed,
An innocent victim of needless litigation.
I remember tight straps on my feet,
To keep me from being pulled away.

"Traction," she said today.
I am a grown woman.
The physical therapist speaks again
and washes me in cold darkness.
"Won't hurt a bit."

But the thought
Of being pulled,
of being chained to the weight
of some one else's making
Makes me heavy-hearted and afraid.

I remember too well,
As a child,
Being pulled apart.

City Nights

The city lives.
It breaths in and out
with the flight of metal monsters
with the flow of people walking, sitting, talking
beneath gray skies that never see stars

The buildings tower.
They lean over wide roadways,
offer scant shelter to the denizens of the slick streets
offer scant solace by their blank, gray faces
by the dim glow of smog and twilight..

Ah, but the beauty of their multitudes
glimmering in the dark of city nights.
They shine like gems in a movie star's tiara.
They rise in the darkness to pay homage
to the heavens they obscure with their might.

Elevator Etiquette

Unnamed fear taps a tango down my spine,
Partnered with desire
To flee this confinement of the spirit,
As finger-smudged, steely doors close out the world
And enclose me in a hot refrigerator box
With a half-dozen other sardines.

A nervous smoker flicks a pen between her fingers
In time to the nervous tattoo of my heart.
The stink of her dirty habit permeates the scanty air
Stealing what little calm I have.

Eyes dance around, flitting this way and that,
Or fixate on unidentifiable carpet spots
To avoid the touch of another person's gaze.
I await the moment when the air won't be so stale
With the press of bodies hugging dingy walls,
Where they huddle, rooted in place by the press of gravity,
Trying to make themselves small, unnoticed, untouched.

I stare at the lighted numbers, counting silently down
And hold my breath as the tinny speaker sounds,
"First floor. Marketplace to your right. Have a nice day."
Those prison doors slide open sluggishly,
And I slip through the narrow maw
As it closes to catch it's next human feast.

Pork Chop

As a lead in, this poem was written as a prompt response to a painting entitled "Pork Chop Reflected" which contained a naked woman on her knees and several people gawking at her with big happy smiles on.

Sister
You piece of meat

Your supple thighs invite
belie
the loathing in your ghastly eyes

You dance before their greasy smiles
offer your humanity
to their endless appetites

Nudity can't cover your naked despair

The Journey

The road stretches out before me.
The crack centered within its grey paving
runs like a guide wire,
directing my path along its stretching length.
The sounds of wilderness,
calls of forest dwellers,
babbling of brooks,
and mistuned chorus of tree frogs
lull me.
They Caress my inner calm like a lover’s touch.
Tall green trees and dappled sun
light my way
and cool my fervor
for the journey’s end.

Family Footsteps

He walks in the footsteps of the past
Like his brothers, uncles, father
Enlisted now in one man's army
Boots treading over fields of trampled blood

Among the paddies, mud and sweat
Lay memories of days gone by
When Grandpa strode this narrow road
Between duty and that soulful bugle cry

Of that man, but a folded flag remains
And memories of soft-light quality
When we as children played
Unaware of his narrow escape

Or that we someday might follow
In the footsteps of his past

Freedom Man

His likeness stands witness
To the lingering ghost of life lost
He marches through the mirror of time
A reminder of that highest cost
He wades through paddy, marsh, and field
On legs turned to steel and stone
A monument to those laid low
Who once were flesh and bone

Having paid freedoms fare
For his children, for our land
Now his likeness stands before us
That we may understand

The Price of Freedom

Bastard

Existence
Wrapped round and round with layers of lies
Unknown origins
Secret love's delight

Midnight
Stars blazing on high, but nothing immaculate
Quickened cry
And gush of life

Bastard
Spoken in whispers, never to my face
Mother's disgrace
cold hatred at the teat

Childhood
The price paid for being born
Dark times
Stark memories of bottled rage

Acceptance
The gift given to oneself each day
Speaking faith
That even a bastard is worthy

Supermom

False expressions born in Technicolor
Transmitted via satellite.
Cold comfort of a nameless Mom
Who always knows her place.
Spotless house, pressed table linens
Flowered apron, scratch-made stacked pancakes.
Sunny smile on her features
As she hands Dad his briefcase

Reality strikes with a splash of milk
On cold cereal in the morning.
Pull laundry from the heap on the floor
And rush out the door with shoes unlaced
Schedules, meetings, laptop cords
No time for kisses goodbye.
Cell phone ringing, children screaming
And no peace in this place

The Voice Within

I spent today alone but for the silence,
To see if I could still hear the voice within
Or if it had died
Like peace of mind
When the hand of terror touched this land.


I found after a time
The voice still whispered,
In the still places of my darkest self
Where I kept my sense of fear and trepidation
Until they burst the seams that held them in.


The whisperings of my imagination
Unfolded into tales of devastation,
And I put aside the happy endings I had planned,
To write the ever after
That my broken heart could stand.

Thunder

He doesn't sleep well when it thunders.
When the crash and flash of a storm rages
beyond the glass of our windows.
He startles in the night
and the sound of his fear wakes me
My voice comforts him.
My touch comforts him.

But I wonder,
laying there in the dark
after I've held him and whispered platitudes,
if he dreams of the past
or the future.
If it was another life's memories
of the thunder of bombs
that make him forget I am beside him.
Or if maybe in the night he sees another time,
when together we'll huddle
in the rubble of our lives
with my arms around him
as I whisper platitudes
and pray that they ring truth.

When morning comes, he has already forgotten.

Surgical Separation

Fear spurts up my spine,
intensifying with each dark memory.

When it was me,
It wasn't so bad.
I felt calm, a sort of Zen.
But no such luck now
when it is him.

They took him away
and broke my Promises.
They offer us weak platitudes
that resonate with disinterest,
ignoring the spirit of their own laws
and the spirit of our union.

Only bitter,
bitter fear keeps me company
in his absence.

Unsuspecting Sleeper

Exhaustion beating down my door,
Breathing down my collar,
Begging me for more
than I can give.

Sleepless nights, dreamless days,
Awake and lonely in the cold, dim dawn,
I lay with insomnia’s tired, grey haze
as my sole companion.

Medically ambivalent,
I await the final verdict.
Sleeping would be heaven sent
but what a price to pay.

Tiny pill swallowed down,
My head upon the pillow.
Walking dreams await to drown
the unsuspecting sleeper.

Initially published in Beginnings Magazine September 2005.

Ghosts Among Us

They stand, pale shadows
Against the golden grass
Of late winter.
Ghosts among our number
Wearing their white flesh
Among the darker breeds
Of hardwood trees.
Spirits of winter
Breathed to life with the coming of spring
As the budding green grows
Upon the smoke and snow
Colors of ethereal branches.

They are the ghosts of the forest,
A reminder that nothing is forever.
That even the tallest of oaks
Will some day fall and rot and stand no more
Among the numbers of their brethren,
In the company of birch.

Pumper

Blue skies fill with the shimmer
of cool, clean water
As the fire engine roars

to the delight of a horde.
The children shriek and run
chasing to the middle
Where the mist and rainbows
become shadows and rain drops.
Small, bare feet kick up, splash, splish,
and giggles fill the soaking air.
A firefighter knows
that the pumper truck is built for sadder days
and that Cub Scout fun must soon end.

But not just yet.