tell me again
what’s wrong with me.
I’ll pull up a chair,
like a child listening
to a bedtime story,
while you list all the ways
I will never be enough,
remind me why I am alone,
sing me my failures,
question my abilities,
paint my inferiority,
hum my inadequacy,
strum the notes of my wrongs,
then ask me
why
I don’t
believe
in
myself
anymore
sounds improbable
perhaps made up
even the radiologist
laughed (before):
“everybody thinks
they see a
brain
tumor
on their MRI”
maybe just
for sympathy
or attention, what better
way to make
people feel sorry
for you? really,
who talks about
it? If it was true,
you’d just be silent,
depressed, dying,
figuring out why you,
why YOU? so we’ll
silently nod our heads
in doubtful sympathy,
noting your normal
face, and we’ll keep
our doubts quiet
while
you
are
still
here
horizon
line against time
sea catches sun
The Music Man, he soothes; he plays all his chords in blue,
leans back his head, eyes closed, fingers of a poet.
He plays out his soul, in sonnets of electrics strings,
harmonies of rain and green. He’s made of music, mountain,
and silence, still searching for his home. His melody
so sweet that clouds rain words, lift hearts into bloom.
Miles and miles away, she sits in peace by the sea,
and the mountain tells the waves the Music Man’s song.
She hears it all, Music Man’s dreams never sleep; she collects
each note, each word, each dream, two souls – and builds a home for both.
How did she taste, when I was writing poems for you?
Was her bed warm, did you sing to her, too, while I waited
in silence for you? Did you look behind or ahead or only
in her eyes? Was the press of her flesh all you needed
to feel alive? Were my words tossed aside like last weeks
trash, while you cherished her body, and I walked alone
outside? Did you wonder what it meant as you sighed in
release, the waves of torment you set on the seas? Or do
you owe nothing to no one and your body is free? Do you
realize that your body will never claim me?
each
truth
stands on
its own and
grows a foundation
no hidden secrets or doors
that stay locked, no shadows that
lurk and threaten to pull out one piece
from the core of it and bring the whole thing down
souls
of water and sky
always blue
She crawled inside the night to wait
as the sun sunk low, all of her warm
colors followed her down to the sea.
Like music, she heard them go – sun
and her bright yellows and reds – drums,
full orchestra as she bowed her head.
The oranges, peaches, and pinks
danced across the stage, violins echoed
their softer song, and then dropped
with the wind. Only piano remained,
clear and blue, and indigo inked the sky
as day let go – and silence.
And, for so many nights, this is when
the stars would come. The keeper would
release them, one by one. He’d watch her eyes
as stars transformed the blue, and the blue
of her eyes drew the stars inside. And in her sky
he’d draw magical things, and that is what
her heart was made of. But one night, the keeper
never came, and stars began to disappear.
Others claimed to see them still, but her sky was dark.
Deep inside her the magic never returned –
a heart without a keeper, a sky without the stars
I count sunsets ~
sea beams float cloud songs
infinite days
classified categorized signified
Who am I?
This is where I was born.
You think you know?
We are all….
We are all….
Every one of us, the same
must be geography
blame culture
this, a place no one wants to claim
because every one of us is the same
Right?
Does one voice speak for us all?
cultural assumptions
invisible me, an anomaly
No.
You think you know.
assume
They are that way.
simplify
Yet you with your own national pride
expect respect, are not denied
But those people, the U.S.,
they are THAT way.
Some things never change
(we both say)
No one really knows the face
behind the garden gates, but
she smiles when the sun holds
her gaze. Eyes of ancient wonder
sing notes of blue upon the garden.
And when the leaves of fall crown her
gold, she holds it like it’s the last
she’ll ever know. Colors die,
cold creeps in, fades her into stone.
The flowers and sun betray her light.
She becomes invisible again.
“I will end up alone he says,” and in the silent pause,
so many doors close. She collects the know before the feel,
cancels the gray-haired couple, arm-in-arm,
rocking late days on the porch of music. Promises
to stay, believe, carry him to night, those are blown away,
stripped like maples’ autumn color, disappear like summer
days. Perhaps he chose alone to spare her in some way.
Though the layer of fallen leaves and torn up plans weighs
deeply through her bones, she carries pieces of him with her.
He will never be alone.
color
speaks
its own words
where is he now
the gardener of souls?
his “good morning” silent,
cardinals wonder why
sun, looking for a reason
summer holding on,
flowers broken without his songs
the gardener of souls
where is he now?
Talking to the Clouds 