I tried to write a villanelle
The words come easier
when they're pretty,
form and meter
can be salves.
There is no relief
when writing
of family,
the three-sided dagger
leaves a wound
that must be packed
and never closes.

I tried to write a villanelle,
to package the truth
with enough honey
to make the bitter-roots
palatable;
it wouldn't go down easy,
wouldn't come out either.

This poem a finger
on the back
of my throat
to purge
to flush
to rinse my mouth
from the acid
regurgitated

skin slightly paler and just trusting enough
the younger twin by two minutes explained
sometimes mom gets this way
standing at the open trunk of the ‘84 Mazda 626
feeding the feral dog old bologna
somewhere in the deepest humid South
late summer, two-thousand two –
driving her home from school
the oldest sits double uncomfortable
with cramps and an upset stomach
while watching me
doing the strangest dance of delicacy
as who knows the mystery of the first moon cycle
…safe! –
tromping through the stream bed
string-less sneakers barely remembered
against all odds and laws of physics
face still ***** with a sugary ring
smiles fly as the biggest agate of day
lay in stubby strong fingers –
strange prompt without limits
on this second day of poetry month
two-thousand sixteen
invoke old memories of strangers
becoming a family….

one day their children will call me Grandpa,
and Sam will quietly slip away –

framed in driftwood
we stand, gathered informally
standing on sand, at the waters edge
with blue sky and sun behind

father, mother, son.
zinced but still pinked
by the day, on the beach
smiling, carefree

intertwined by love
and history,
the gene pool, strong.
hair blonde and curly
the feet, long toed
and the clefting dimple
on chin, the slight turn of nose

we are held for posterity
together,
for this moment
of memory.
smiling, laughing, loving.

as the tide recedes,
as the sun sets,
as the sand is blown hither.

we will remain......family....

some say God is in the trees
but the cedar in front of my house
is always full of cackling old blackbirds

i hear the whisperings
of my Creator
somewhere
deep in the middle of me

maybe i am the church

maybe every pain is a memory
every tear a redemption

of the system
dinosaurs  at play

modify the system
dinosaurs at work

change the system
dinosaurs afraid

work the system
dinosaurs  delayed

ignore the system
dinosaurs confused

abused the system
dinosaurs confounded

abolish the system
dinosaurs extinct

create the system
dinosaurs  evolve

of the system
dinosaurs replayed

tonight the moon hides itself
shly peeking out
from behind ragamuffin  grey clouds

the stars are a'twinkle, twinkle
on indigo blankets
clouds dash to and fro

i gaze upon the heavens
and briefly wonder
if others elswhere also gaze

and ponder about the nature
of the sky
and the nighttime flying by

or do they sigh and
give no thought
to why the moon
                              is shy