I am convinced
That if all mankind
Could only gather together
In one circle
Arms on each other's shoulders
And dance, laugh and cry
     together
   Then much
     of the tension and burden
       of life
     Would fall away
In the knowledge that
We are all children
Needing and wanting
Each other's
Comfort and
Understanding
We are all children
Searching for love

I can see the beast staring right back at me,emotionless even in the iridescent rays
Tell me mirror is a liar.
                      **** tell me
                                           mirror is a
                                                               LIAR.

Pure shadow, breathing;
seeing the question in your embrace —
     the color of heat...birds in a secret storm.  

Let's  be  tight.

Weak legs.

A crazy shine.

A dry catch, safe;
love's stone a spent breeze —
     laughter's lot...short emotions that needed to rise.  

Gentle sounds.

Closer.

Eat a star.

Minds died, began;
cool facts giving way —
     later...night's secret covers the skin.

You are the sad love song I hear on the radio
You are the boy causing my friend grief and heartbreak
The empty beer bottles scattered all over the floor
The dark eyes staring back at me in the mirror, eyes that are not mine . Ones I do not recognize
You are alternate side parking on a thursday morning
You are all the reasons why not to leave my house on a rainy day
You are the little girl walkin the street alone looking around for the caring parent who will never be there on time to pick her up for school
You are the fighting couple in the middle of the street everyone walks by and doesn't pay attention to
The crushed up cigarettes on the floor that took someone's life
The wrong lotto ticket that the family on 6 was depending on
You are the emptiness in the poor mans stomach
You are the smoke coming out of the angry mans ears
You are the green in the jealous mans eyes
You are the deserted street no one dares to walk on
You are the outcome of a helpless soul
You are the feeling of anguish that rushes over the lonely widow
You are the voices of the unheard children
You are the letter that was never received
You are the lost the destiny
You are the never ending tunnels
The aid who never came
The hope which started to fade
The life of that fine young land
The reasons why we get do mad
You are thestory I can not write
You are the fear on thst dark stormy nigt
But out of all these things you are the one who ran back into the falling towers .
The sun that's hiding behind the clouds
The boy who plays his guitar on the street that doesn't give up
You are the penny that goes to charity
The older brother that protects his siblings
The mother who is strong even though her husband left her
You are the one who keeps the world going
You are the kids who made a difference the ones who didn't let anyone change them
The one I go to when everyhing feels wrong
The one that listens
The one who knows
You are the story that will never be able to be told for you are the story I can not write , too many different sides of you . So many my fingers just can't type



You arethe story I can not write but you are the story that will be a legend for ever .

Lover of mine
You make me feel weightless
Like I can reach up
Grab the clouds with my bare hands
And consume them as if they were cotton candy

Lover of mine
You make me feel important
Like I can do anything and everything
That this crazy world throws at me
And if anyone says otherwise you will defend me because I am important to you thus making me feel the way I do

Lover of mine
You make me feel infinite
Like I can live for an eternity and never grow tired nor weary
I can climb a mountain, run a marathon, and still have enough stamina to come running back into your arms


Because lover of mine
you make me feel as I've never felt before
And I doubt anyone or anything else can ever make me feel the way I do.
Lover of mine?
*I love you.

I realized the other day
That poetry has become
How I color in the gray
How I scrape up the ****
And salvage it

At times I think it’s nonsense
Stanzas of here and there
Of love and its expense
A sad whispered prayer
To someone, to no one

But looking back
To how I wrote then
And how I crack
Like leaky pottery when
I write now

I understand
Who I was then
& How unplanned
time and time again
I find myself alone

this happiness possesses the fragility of
freshly painted walls, so easily marred
by an accidental shoulder brush, exposing
the dingy grey beneath, once white, like the balloons
we hung outside the house when we moved in,
but they fell, at the leisure of the wasted breath
I filled them with, though now, now it is just the stone
floors and I, and a silence that is not quite a silence,
more so the whispers of a church,
or the sound that a cloud makes as it drifts away,
there and then gone, without warning,
a glass figurine propped against a doorstop-
one hard push and it will crumble into glacial shards,
crystalline dust that I will piece back together, even though
the scars will always be visible, and that is fine,  wonderful even,
because it is so beautifully human, and
because perfection is a plateau, and
I would rather climb a ladder of rotten wood
because each rung unbroken is a step up, and
because I love the way my heart jumps anxiously
against my rib cage whenever I stop to look down.

"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)