Your tragic family:
The little wealth
You had is gone.
No place
To call home any more.
No welcoming friends
To take you in.
There’s nothing left to do
But leave.

Leaving should be
Very easy.
Theres nothing left
For you to pack.
Nor any trunk for
You to put things in.
No need either
For a suitcase -
You’re wearing
Everything  you own.

Who can help you -
They need help too.
Who can find
An answer in the ashes
That are the tombs
Of relatives,
Cremated
With no prayers spoken.

How is it
You must fly away.
You have no passport;
You have no funds
Beyond the dollars
In your pocket
When you ran.
You can’t go to
The bank for more
The contents of the vault
Are charred.
And papers with
Your name on them
Are gone.

You cannot call.
The wires are down.
The towers melted in the blaze.
The Post Office
Is in ruins.
And no one answers
When you shout.

You have friends
And relatives
In other places
That are safe.
The only thing that you can do
Is wait
For them to come and save you.
I hear jet engines
Revving up.
Hope must not be
Let to die.
             ljm

In the quiet time I can feel it
It comes over me like a mist
In the stillness of the moment I sense it
It gently caresses me
In the calm I hear it like like a beautiful melody

I am lifted up
I can reach beyond myself
I can go to another world
I can lose myself

In the quiet time I feel it
I go to a special place
Where things are calm and still
Where there is light
Where there is no darkness

In the stillness I can sense it
I can hear others hearts beating
In the calm I feel it in my soul
I am lifted up
To another place and world
To a place of light
To a place of inspiration
To a place of great peace
To a place unlike anything
In the stillness of the moment

I watched a young
boy beat his
chest and scream at
the dawn until
the liquid sky drove
him away.
He chased thunder
and
butterflies with the
same enthusiasm;
oozing a lust for
living in his chasm
of youth.
Ten years full of
questions and scabbed
up knees, freckled dreams
running across green fields
and sunlit meadows.
Golden little life,
resting beneath a
willow tree to sip the
sweetness
from the clover and
honeysuckle flowers.
Hours full of pocketknife
afternoons, whittling sticks
into arrows to
shoot at the moon.
And after the rain
oh sweet green youth,
run barefoot with the
wind
toward a sinless
sky.
And live, live
live, for tomorrow
will come with a sigh.

as streets sleepwalk in reverse,

there's a sensation of standing

backward on an upward escalator.

nothing gives, because it doesn't

want to--night won't let go.

the wind picks up & finds a thorn

whistling at your side.

there's home to get to, where you

wish the lights were on when you

look up.

the windows remain dark.