It started with “Hey!”
I was shy and reserved.
You were boisterous and outgoing.
We became instant friends.
You balanced me on life’s balance scale.
Our lives became in synced.

It continued with “I love you, as a friend”
Daily calls ending at 3 am.
Movie nights in our ugliest Pjs.
I became your relationship therapist
And you became my life counselor.
My heart became entangled with yours.

It grew tricky with “I love you”
Your presence made me giddy.
Your smile made my inners swoon.
Hearing about your relationships
Filled me with envy.
A battle arose between my mind and heart.

It fell apart with “I need you”
You put me down easily.
Showing me my place in your life.
I could be everything but not the “one”.
You would never feel the same,
But we could remain best friends.

It ended with “…… “
Our friendship isn’t able to bounce back.
I cry daily knowing I can’t have your love.
I can love you better than any!
Maybe you’ll realize when I’m gone
That with my heart; is where yours belong.

Blue skies
Sunny days
Children's laughter
Heard miles away
Dimpled cheeks
Golden hair
Blue eyes
Sparkle so fair
Scraped knees
Bumble bees
Bird's singing
From tops of trees
Afternoon glasses
Tall with sweet tea
This is what Spring means
Only to me

My generous hands
forgot how to pray.
I watched the butterfly
rise on strong winds
hoping that in the opening
and closing
of her silent wings
I might remember.

My heart is vacant.
The words all wandered off
and I've been searching-
for what
I can't name.

Hands wide open
and waiting.

My knees tremble-
ache-to please again.
But my hands won't remember
and the words won't come back

If I could draw it -
but I was never an artist.
What a picture that would be -
my family.

And maybe if I could trace the lines
I could better understand
how I came to be--me.

But I can't separate the smells
and sounds
and touch of it,
pencils can only go so far.

And there are the scenes
that I can only imagine.
The ones that happened
decades before me.
I see my grandpa's smiling face.
I don't remember him
as a brawling drunk
terrorizing his family
after world war II.

Granny smelled like powder
and liked men
though she would never admit it.
She talked a lot
but I don't remember ever
hearing any thing worthwhile.

The one I can't name.
He hurt me in the dark.

Mom Glass, the bootlegger,
who took her grandaughters
on Sunday trips up the mountain
to buy moonshine.
She wore red underdrawers
and she didn't care who knew.

Mammaw, who gave me words.
Who didn't know I was a refugee
but always welcomed me warmly.
She taught me the beauty
of being earthy.
No prim or proper uppity
girls fishin in the creek.
That one brought tears.
I miss her smile.

There are so many faces.

Voices.

Memories.

All contributed something
to the poem
I haven't written yet.

It is possible to change.

Enter the dusky wilderness
in stillness, in silence

moments will open
like desert bloom

brief and luminous.

Just a note
to say, thanks
for the many years
of enjoyment

when I first met you
I will admit I found
you a dry and boring
old stick

It took a while to get the knack,
to be enamoured with your style

but once converted, I was, a fan
and read you by midsummers night
in and out love, through tempests
and battlefields, with friends, foes
and witches,
on balconies, in shoreditches.
upon islands where all seemed familar
but in such a confusing way.

Through battles and histories
fact and fanciful.
I walked withyou and  
your word play
at my heels like a dog...

sometimes with clarity
and sometimes befogged.

Your words dear friend
have so often been apt...

Tho I sometimes wonder
if you knew the effect
your scrawl would have
as you sat and wrote
making it up as you went along,
I wonder if you thought your
words  were whisperings in a wind
there....and then gone.

And now you are famous,
world reknowned.
A bard no less
with the Globe at your feet

Yet to me you are a friend,
your words comfort, and inspiration
in a world unstable...

So again I say,
Thanks for the plays
the sonnets and things

it made a difference
more than you know

but just to let you know...
I still haven't got the knack
of writing in iambic flow....

A woman is
Not just some
House-slave-house-
Maid-property.
We are house-of-
God's beauty,
Shrine's not
For ruin.

We were different
Like winter and summer,
So we made our little spring
To balance it out.
But then fall came.