When critics roar
parceling out every error,
weakness, & poor decision
keep breathing,
           count,
meditate;
wander out
& watch the sunrise,
study Her wonder as light curls
from pale rose
to a ravishing blush;
pull kindness
from your pocket,
drop its gilded edge
into others' palms,
smile at glimpses of promise,
allow tears, too, to come
for feeling is the opposite
of a walking death;
don't retreat
from today's pain;
a blistered heart stings
& you may suffer
for a while,
but the beauty of hurt
is that it also heals-
given time

I held the moon

And knew immortality

I traded all my unforsaken days

To move within the eternal orbit of her night

To eclipse death

Yet here then the gap narrowed

Broken flight

They went down somewhere
in the trees

The sky is sad
and full of remorse

But never Calliope

Broadway and 52

God knows
they got to you

She sings songs
of their misfortune

Decidely the muse and
mother of importune

the blank page
scratched and scarred
by the pencil

the sharp pencil
sacrificing itself
to the page

the written page
does not feel tarnished
by the pencil’s residue

the dull pencil
does not feel diminished
by the loss of graphite

both page and pencil
when disfigured and destroyed
fulfill their potential

Clouds
sketching
synchronistic
footnotes
into the novelties
of the day

Tucking into the folds
of late August valleys

painted in vintage clover

falling toward winter

Ivory forms lazily turn mobiles overhead

As symbols,
as comfort
as bucket filled rain.

This long month
lingers
unwilling to loose its deadly grip.

Or is it because there is still a flower to bloom
its magenta glory
to wash away
or dilute
the sadness
of this month’s decaying days?