I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;  
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:  
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek).

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,  
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand;  
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin;  
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;  
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing we did make).

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;  
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;  
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,  
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved).

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:  
I’m martyr to a motion not my own;
What’s freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.  
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:  
(I measure time by how a body sways).

this is
a thankyou message to you all
who have accepted me in your community
of poets trying to articulate
what we feel is important

often it's love,
     with all its ups and downs
sometimes  it's death
     or loss of friends and the beloved
sometimes it is political
    because one cannot stand aside
    when human rights are stepped upon
    and hate speech threatens those
    who have already lost their homes
    their relatives   their children

as poets
I believe  
we have an obligation
     not only to make life
     more beautiful with our art
     find words in situations
     that tend to leave us speechless

but also to speak up in times
    when fuzzy rhetoric
    spewed forth by demagogues
tries to paint cruelties in friendly colors
    and lack of principles as necessary adaption
    to current times

the power of the word
    not only made our world

it  is the only way
to save it

the poet is a fragile me
that longs to gain eternity
by power of the word

the greatest fear is that
no poet but a nerd
    who cuddles into words
    and there gets lost
is what is heard
    outside this world of letters
and at the most
can claim illusions
    that may better
    the understanding of a verse
    of all the meaning it conveys
    the sorrow pain concern and love

and then again
    as said above
what reaches out beyond
     the mind that spins these notions
     of love and other great emotions
may just appear
as nothing but a comma
    in the ocean
    of words around the globe

that’s what we poets fear

the thunder of
a small bird.

a poem grows shadows
and moonscapes,

the moon,
withered sapphires,
undone,
her open windows
a thread of bright
light.

What if
What if?
Sometimes us women think that way
What if?