What makes this the endMore than any time before?The bitterness I felt for youResentment and much more? Contempt for all your lies, disguisedAs half-truths, tales and bendsThe way you’ve twisted all my words Does not make this the end. It’s not the way you looked at meWhen you turned and said goodbyeOr the fire in my…
As the ice melts around my heartThe footprints of last night remainOffering memories of all that came beforeAnd into time retained. As the ice melts on the lakeThe water starts to moveAnd takes the warmth from the sunTo build a current that soothesThe torrent in my soulA place for time and space explainsThe confluence of…
The fission of my soulCreates energy to destroy Or power the world around me. Its awesome power is created in one simple small nucleus. That builds a bomb to flatten everything I’ve builtOr power and sustain it all forever. But more likely, it’s a dud. That just collapses on itselfAnd leaves the elements hollow and withdrawn From everything.
The totem stands against the wall, Just askew as the night before. Reminding us of all we knewWhen it crossed the threshold door. Should you seek to find the meaning thereYou’ll never know, I’ll never tell. For to repeat what’s held insideWould open Dante’s eternal well. The totem stands against the wall. It looks at me, stares full of…
If he were dying of cancerI wouldn't care for himtake him to treatment get his suppliesI wouldn't even come to see himOr call to give him my loveOr keep him in my thoughts and prayers. That's cruel, I say.She answers, "No. You didn’t give him cancer."
The milk toast you think you craveWill never satisfy And she’ll always know that She’s not as smartOr witty or worldly or wiseAnd she just barely gets your jokesBut she giggles when you say “ta da”Because when Phineas is on stageEveryone cheersBut she’s never go backstage when you take off your costume and cryYou don’t like someone…
The perennial issue for sprouts, ugly head every year, refusing to grow bigger or get smaller sprouts lives dies. It’s covered by snow and returns again and again and again this year. I’ll dig it out and throw it in the compost and let somebody else see.
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Evidence of reality on the canvas birthed by the three of us creation of ours alive and real I can hear the painting sing a song of place and being.
Watching my crepe paper Skin Slide Over the muscles I move As I reach for the tonic Each morning To give me the energy Of youth To age Through another day And see my skin Wrinkle And slide Again Tomorrow I think Of my mother’s hands As they aged around the Star sapphire That retained its…
