Does memory serve right?
For memory says she stood
Upon that hill in summer’s light
Expressing perfect womanhood.

How could it be a girl in shorts and blouse
That summer’s light taught thru
Stand as Helen did at Troy
To represent idyllic womanhood?

What she stood for did she know?
To stand in view wrapped in morning’s light
To make her beauty clear.
She must have known the lure of womanhood.

Yet they say ancient rhythms first sound
Before teachers come for the innocent ones.
They say the dance is never shown
Before they know the love of womanhood.

The story lies, though truth resides within it:
Innocence wilts before beauty’s soft eyes.
And on that day, upon that verdant hill
She knew the truth and used it well
To bring me the blessings of womanhood.

© 2016

With no fear of breaking his body
The little squirrel floats free
From that tree to this tree
To all the trees I am allowed to see.

Brave fellow.
With boundless joy
It seems he plays my fool
To cheer a dangerous mood.

I remember I killed his kin.
For sport they died.
Hundreds I suppose.
And suppose it must have been a sin.

Of which retribution should flow
From him to crippled me
For bitterness I would not be
Surprise his playfulness hides.

I stagger from bed to chair.
He runs the trees as if for glee.
I crawl, when times are bad,
Just to see him running free.

And if I could I would tell him
I know his ancestors’ pain.
I would tell him I am sorry;
I served no purpose for the pain.

Now I watch him
As if to pray,
As my body goes
My mind will stay.

© 2016

Where is that little boy?
The one I saw riding down the grassy hill.
I saw him look down that hill,
Summon courage, gauge the drop,
Judge the moment before he might be lost.

Was he lost?
I saw him make the run,
The spokes of his bicycle flashing in the sun.
Twice he ran the hill, sharp right and
Sped along the river as if he could not be lost.

Was he lost?
While I was gone did he go?
Tell me no, though I know
Boys grow to be men
Not far from loss.


© 2016

In this heat and night go to where the fireflies fly,
Where land ends and the lighthouse stands,
Where the horn warns of sudden danger,
Where curls of fog roll in from the cooling sea.

Child, hear me – this is important.
Where I stood one night with the fireflies lighting me.
Where the universe was for a moment understood.
Where the poetry I lived there will not be understood by you.

A gray day – cool, frost will come tonight.
And in the coolness they arrange the scene,
Just so during the waning light of day.

A scene of Christmastime, wreaths and lights
Adorn the doors and window frames.
Wealth and solidarity, joy and love I see in them.

They pose now before their work.
The camera snaps,
Their well-being so obviously displayed.

In the future they will go each by each,
Yet bound by such events
A family they will forever be.

Of that family I so record
In these observations from afar.
Now pray a grace protects them from the likes of me.

Girl walking,
Full sunlight shining,
On the beach,
On her figure
Slightly hidden.

All eyes watching,
As she moves.
All to see
A million years
From the slime of the sea.