I took the easy way out
Over and over
Again

If I believed in God
I would write him a poem
Ask him where he came from
To help me to know him

If I believed in God
I would write her a song
I'd walk in the garden
And sing it at dawn

If I believed in God
It would be an obsession
I would pray every day
I have so many questions

To whom do I address my awe,
My thanks, my love?

Where are you, God?

Finally
There are no more
Words inside of me

Empty

and silent

I cannot speak

Most Things End in Sorrow

The happiest marriages we’ll ever know
End in death; the unhappy marriages
Decay in cycles of disappointment
And fall apart in court on a working day

A glorious autumn ends in blue-ice winds
A favorite childhood toy is forever lost
An anticipated promotion is denied
And golden youth in hospice slips away

But morning’s cup of courage freshens hope,
And the world is optimistically green

The breezes of spring
bellowing pitches from low to high
whipping through my tresses
that keep me warm inside,
giving movement to the rope swing out back.
A rotting apple nearby
(probably not ours)
and that bench in it's place with stories to tell,
where we spent sunsets
perched and burnt.
It all brings me back.

My eyes starting to water from smoke,
squinting through the hazy air
at the overcrowded couch - a war veteran
sitting proud in the center of the room,
holding up the unforgiving weight of teenage angst.
Visible scars,
a testament to its years served,
memories fixed with duct tape.
And I, sitting on the edge of a wooden dining room chair,
began to wonder how we all ended up in these places -
the couch, the youth,
the stains in the carpet,
the fly on the window sill
trapped between the panes,
unbothered and unnoticed.
I tipped my head back and ran my fingers
through my thinning hair,
closing my eyes to catch a glimpse
of tomorrow morning.

We were all younger
dumber
naïve
but the purest we would ever be.
Now I'm flying down 87
and I have to train my mind
not to wander without purpose
so I try to remind myself
that I've been back to those rooftops,
and I know
the air will never sink in as sweet
as when we were whole,
in years lost to the breezes of spring.

My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning