come when you have to face reality
hard it can be as iron frozen
like a tongue stuck to a pole
in December at the top of the world
with your pants down turn around
see others for the first time
their faces eyes starving just as much as yours
then say I am sorry
breathe once in a while
instead of chasing that goal
of things you can hold but not
ever take from here with you

I was just a lonely boy
And always had I been
The world became a kinder place
When first I met Rosene

She had the most enchanting smile
That I had ever seen
My heart jumped like a salmon's leap
When first I loved Rosene

We lived together many years
That now seem like a dream
Our children grew and then they flew
To tend their pastures green

She fought as hard as she could fight
But fate was cruel and mean
The world became a poorer place
The day we lost Rosene

The tears fall and mottle the parchment
                 there is no ink to run
                       to smear
                             or distort

The stain of shapes, letters, words
         are no longer present
                  to be deformed
                         or washed away

The instrument with which to write 
            no longer has use,
                    is no longer held
                          with such care,
                                such grace
                
  The desk that supports the weight
                       of my futility
                              has now crumbled
                                      in despair

The chair that held me
                     refuses to bear the weight
                           of my hollowness any longer

I've left behind
          the room that is so empty
                       except for a distant echo
                               of thoughts
                                    cultivated,
                                           cherished

Only the view from the window remains the same
            yet I do not stare in wonder
                     or for inspiration
              
             I turn and walk away from it all.

I really feel more than sad,
To know that thou art gone—Dad.
Dragged away by winds of time,
Far away to a very distant clime.
Leaving me upon shores of life alone
With a physiognomy but forlorn.
Such grievous news unto mine ear,
That nevermore to hold thee near.
Yes, thou art out of human sight—
But may thee dwell in eternal light.
And when my earthly life is over,
Searching thee I'll incessantly halt never,
But wend along the wildest river banks,
Clobbered by wild winds, nest upon trunks,
Journey myriads of galaxies on yonder
Just searching for thee from star to star,
Simply because till we ever meet again,
I'm doomed to languish in a vale of pain.


**REST IN PEACE DAD

his heart like a 20 oz framing hammer
his fists a sledge
his mind keen as a straight edge and razor knife
his body made hard from long hours
a grip like a pipe wrench
he would shake hands with vise grips
his gaze unnerving
but smart
he could see through the blueprints
when he laughed , which was seldom,
he shook the foundations.
When you needed his help,
he was there.

I was making dinner
Just the other night
My little girl, my all
My WORLD
Asked me,"Momma, am I ugly?"
I stopped,
Dead in my tracks
****, grilled onions and peppers
To hell with fried okra
Let them burn in butter
I say,"What on earth, would make you think such a thing?"
She,
My Stella, my all,
Replies," My friend, said I am ugly.
She said my scars are funny."
My heart, STOPPED
What does a mother say?
I was at a loss,
My face, drained of blood
Ugly?
My Stella?
She was sick,
At birth
Yes, she has her scars,
Yes, she's abnormally small
But I think,
She's the most beautiful
Of ALL,
I knelt,
Got on my knees
I looked in her beautiful,
Sky coloured eyes
And I said,
"Stella, you, are beautiful.
In all my life, never, have I seen a more beautiful little girl. Your scars, well, those are Gods love marks. Like lipstick kisses. And they make you special."

What price do we place on freedom
in a world of consumer slaves?
Do we measure it in the lives
of soldiers sent to their graves?

Do we measure it in the families
who lost dads, husbands, sons;
and trust the politicians
whose solution is always guns?

Do we measure it in the comfort
of never knowing first hand
the way that a child feels
growing up in a war-torn land?

What is the cost? What will it take
for us to wake and see:
if this were the path to freedom
wouldn't everyone be free?

If hate will only breed more hate
and if war only breeds more war,
it ultimately begs the question:
is "peace" worth fighting for?

this is not a poem

I have been absent

for days and weeks.

I have been cleaning
and sewing

and trying to quiet the anger
that I can't control
in light of this new America.

They say there will be a day
when federal monies
will be revoked from arts programs.

I suggest we start looking for ways
to protect the voices
the ones that are real and true
*and not alternative