My mother kept a singing bird, just for herself
In the kitchen
By the door
In a cage.

She fed it herself
and talked to it
at 68.
What woman speaks to a bird,
perhaps one who knows
and understands.

All the peaks and trills,
the notes of song
she heard.
She knew its moods
and tunes, she sang along.
Their ritual of conversing
while washing up
and dry with dishcloth
or cooking
or baking her special recipe
apple pie.

Every night, she covered the cage
with a blanket
to keep warm the singing bird and
so the kitchen light would
not disturb
and in the morning,
she took it off again.

Then with silence broken
by welcome twitter,
she would tell
her grey and black wonder
of her plans whilst at chores.
When at elevenses,
she sat near the door
with hot tea and cookie,
she'd offer crumbs
stare ahead, a dreamy smile.

One day the bird died
and into her dishcloth,
she cried.

If there comes a time
that you might lose me
Find me in my poetry

fifteen years through adolescence
fifteen years to build a man
fifteen years to raise a family
another to know who (I) am

fifteen years to pad the coffers
fifteen years to tinker, and rest
fifteen years to reflect on the moments
before the Sunday best

You said, "I'll be right back baby.
Daddy will be back."
Minutes becomes hours
Days became weeks
Months became years.

I lost count, until one day,
You came to




my wedding day.

However I wasted my younger days
Wherever I wiled away precious hours
Whenever I gazed at the moon and stars
Whatever games that we played and pondered
Whichever adventure we went on then
Is exactly where my mind still wanders

Whoever I kissed and then held hands with
Whatever the spell from the sounds and smells
Whenever my heart was soundly broken
However I try silencing this hell
Wherever that loss is newly spoken
Whichever place causes the freshest pain

Whenever I think of the time in flight
By mistake flew into forbidden space
When 2 jets flanking me motioned us down
How they saw us as Eco-Terrorists
Flying to LosAlamos Power Plant
Where it is strictly restricted airspace

Whenever dad left-once on Christmas eve
However it unfolded felt tragic
Whatever Christmas comes around again
Whoever toasts to the joy of the day
Whatever the chance, gone was the magic
Whichever way we celebrate today

Whichever day Mother's Day comes around
Whoever I'm with matters not a bit
However I remember that morning
While feeding our son, “I love you”, you said
Then later, “I don't want to be married...
Anymore.”  That pain floods like tsunamis

However I try to stay in the now
Whenever the calendar reminds me
How my favorite youngest brother died
Whatever the details I sorely pine
Thinking of Sam this 4th of July
When he would have been turning 59

However my days have been wiled away
How often revealing one simple truth
*Where your treasure is, will your heart be, too  (Matthew 6:21)

I miss Vicki
Poetess sublime
Nature is her nurse
She wrote her essence every time

I don’t know why she left
Like Aretha, made me cry
Whatever drove her off
I just want to say good-bye

Her comments-wise, encouraging
With love she shared her best
You’re sorely missed, Dear Vicki
Farewell Dear Poetess

My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
By the beauty of a mountainside,
Or songs that give me chills

Every sight – a hollow view,
I look for more and more
Every sound – an empty cue,
Nothing to answer for
---
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
Ten thousand times I must have cried,
Then smiled – lied – with skill

Everything I see today
Will be, tomorrow, gone
Every sound will fade away –
A shrill inside a yawn
---
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
Does Meaning ever coincide
With life, and hope, and thrill?

I dream this dream, within a dream –
No substance, light, or power
I sing this song, without a sound –
My voice, the wind, devours
---
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
I might as well be groping blind,
Deafened – senses killed

I long to see that final sight
And hear that final word,
To show me Something in this night,
And assure me that I’ve Heard
---
But…

Maybe, I never, seeing, See
And never, hearing, Hear
Because the problem is IN ME:
This heart of death and drear...

This heart, it must be satisfied;
This heart, it must be filled!
For, we all see from deep inside;
The heart always distills...

.

Some want to redistribute wealth
Perhaps instead we should redistribute love
Then wealth would redistribute itself