I’m drenched
in the flood
which has yet to come

I’m *******
in the prison
which has yet to exist



Not having played
the game of chess
I’m already the checkmate



Not having tasted
a single cup of your wine
I’m already drunk



Not having entered
the battlefield

I’m already wounded and slain



I no longer
know the difference
between image and reality



Like the shadow
I am

And

I am not

These double doors are my eyes that see into peoples' lives
the end of a neon bright hallway, surgically clean
a lone traveller drags her life by the handle
here at an obscure hour while others sleep

I wonder if it's necessary that she leave?
She seems so removed from the furrowed brow
ticking watch business-man beside her
Watch the time. A missed flight. The world unfamiliar.

The agitated jitter of a lady puzzles me,
why does she cry? what is she leaving behind?
where will she go?
the airport departure lounge
purgatory
for a travelling soul.

It is January, I know,
but there is warmth in me for now
as if Spring had shaken off low clouds
and washed away these ragged heaps of snow.

It will pass,
this early bloom of light,
and we shall turn to trudging, once again,
the icy paths we walk from car to house.

Like that fugitive queen,
you leave Winter in your wake.
Wield that weather gently, love:
You bring a Spring to us who urge you on.

When Friday buried Thursday
at the cemetery
I was eating eggs and
bacon in my bathrobe.
The other days wore black
attire to the burial
and brought white geraniums.
I stood in silence for three minutes
after I finished my breakfast
then wrote a note for the weekend:

“My time will come,
don’t wait for me,”

and left.

Near blind
no longer able

to follow the path
under the bridge

to stream’s edge where
White-tailed deer bow

and drink
pink tongues flick,

eyes
wide.

She runs from the garden with a tomato worm in her palm
leaving behind a doll, chocolate milk, and banana.

Behind her and thousands of feet above, a green-black
anvil cloud muscles in  from the southwest, close to home;

far from her mind.

Today, I am gardening my life,
I'll root out  worrisome weeds,
Those thoughts that trouble me,
Cast them aside, those I'd never need.

I'll cut the grass of discontent
Layer it even, soft, green and sweet,
Smoothen  the furrows,
So I can run content, bare feet.

I'll water seeds planted with love,
Of friends made this year,
Friendships that bloomed,
That make life special, worth living and dear.

I'll welcome  butterflies,
And make homes for nesting birds,
With them, taste sun's ambrosia,
Soar and see the world.

I'll bask in the rainbow of colors,
Of blossoms brilliant bright,
And keep them sheltered,
When they sleep at night.

I'll capture the scented essence,
Of roses, jasmines and lilies
Place them in a jar,
My fragrant memories.

I'll love; rest and spend more time,
Under the shade of the  family tree,
Cherish every moment, every minute,
' Neath its precious canopy.

And I'll buy new saplings,
Sow them all carefully  in a row,
Of hopes, promises to me and mine,
And tend to them, make them grow

Tonight, I pray tomorrow
an orchestra brazenly
plays, and hounds

bay in tune, the sun
melts a path in the snow,
blue morning  stars glow;

all, so I can find my
sad and lonely
way.

The  babies sleep soft
as flour beneath
our sagging

roof and ice begs
deformed limbs
down

upon electrical lines while
we wait for the blizzard
to hold breath.

Writers are like gods,
While singers are angels;
Writers can be both,
If we fit in both angles;

Writers are creators
And the preservers of history,
Keeping accurate records,
From century to century;

Writers are prophets,
And oracles too,
We speak of the future,
Most of which comes through;

Writers are artists,
We create drawings in words,
And nothing's been more beautiful,
Than our gallery of words;

Writers are warriors
Winning wars with words-
Bullets and machine guns in our letters,
Have ended numerous discords;

Writers can be good lovers,
With strong emotions too,
A heart that is very fragile,
willing to share a love that's true.