perhaps I am a fragment of them,
careful with what I see and not having a lot of skin,
because of the emotions burden to constantly wear
and all the negativity is slowing us down
to move the fingers that crave to write the words,
first on papers and later - hopefully- on every soul,
about the joy, the love, the pain, the hurt we see and feel.

The old blanket is so hard to discard

dramas have unfolded in its folds
upheavals of winter's orogeny
trills of two birds in ecstatic thrill
to the rest in the ripened knowledge

we have made a home
we have earned it.

In the still of night
under the old blanket
the tales are relived
without a touch
a word..

The old blanket is so hard to discard.

Several college students stood around
arguing about the meaning of God.
Nearby sat an old Indian woman.
They asked her what she thought.

With a wan smile
she took a small blue bowl
from a plastic shopping bag
laid the crinkly bag on her lap
and pointing to it she said
“This is the universe.”
Then she pointed inside the bag’s opening
and said,
“This is God.”

A touch we took, because each breath we wore, whispered yes, inside the searching.  So, we circled all our pride with warmth of reason, so we could keep from hurting.

We both smiled at those clouds of divine truth, spinning backwards as they dispensed.  Since an appetite for silence, fueled the moon and stars in this world, as our defense.

One storm caught a kiss we thought had touched the ground of breathtaking rivers to the sea. Yet, neither of us cried out in fear or yearned to fill the empty space, left for free.

I know poetry is about words
and I do dote on words
I treasure digging up just the right one
to lay out on the carpet and let fly

but I wonder if
it would be well
to just dwell
in the heart space
in silence

to hold the object of my anger or irritation
there
in silence
surrounded by blood
and warmth
there
in the anchor of life

I have come to realize
poetry and its cousin prayer
are just as much
about the heart
as words.