Where are all the carnival rides
The Ferris wheel with bright lights
The fairy floss and cherry cokes
and the warm sultry nights
The call of the racketeer
encouraging all to take a chance
Where's the monkey you carried
just so we could hold hands

Where are all the park benches
that used to ring the pond
Where are the acres of green grass
where we sat as you sang me our song

and where have all the ducks gone?

Where has gone the soda shop,
the big band dance halls
and the local Ihop?

There stands the apartment block
where our little house once stood
Where have all the children gone
that we once watched from the stoop

Where are the endless games
of hide and seek and peek a boo
Where's the night gone, the fires out
Where is the heartbeat of our intimacy we shared in our bedroom?

Its all there in the asbestos ceiling
and in the plaster that is cracked
it crinkles beneath fingers
of cold cotton bed sheets
sterile of comfort and it lacks
the vibrancy of emotions
from another lifetime
Laying still, awaiting the ground
It drifts like fog in an ageing mind

Sometimes,
my son,
I just want
to be numb;
I want to wake
to bird song
and fresh morning air,
not human voice,
not the distant traffic's hum.

Sometimes,
my son,
I want the numbness
to envelope me,
to swallow me whole,
to keep out
the hurt and pain,
the breaking up
of heart
and ache of head,
pretending
you're not dead.

The numbness,
my son,
how it seems
to put things
in perspective,
allows the past
to dissolve
into a vague series
of images,
hoping to be lost,
forgetting the cost.

Sometimes, Ole,
I want to be numb,
need the feelings to go,
the pain to ease,
the last words
to freeze.

Only the drugged
sleep aids,
my son,
only the dreamless sleep
like sister death,
helps me
for a few hours
to unwind
the inner clock's
wound up spring.

Sometimes,
my son,
the drugs don't work,
the pain remains,
and I don't want the drink
to take hold again
to numb the pain.

Sometimes,
my son,
I just want
a numbness to ease,
the words be
temporally forgotten,
the visions seen,
packed away
for another day,
when I feel stronger,
when the loss of you,
hurts less(if ever),
and the night to day
questions come less
or do so no longer.

Some days,
my son,
I just want
to be numb.

Some say
she is lost to writing poems
snippets, little vignettes of beauty
so much nature inspired, obsessed
with green, botany driven desires
forever in skies, blue, or black with stars
meteor showers, falling, melting
like the liquid silver, red sea of mars
crashing waves, her days
tossed, tumbled, stumbling onto poetry
there is no fault, in words
no shame to be made
would be a sorrowful price to pay
she is writing to find
some truths, a sleuth, a seeker
of going within, without doubt
writing to find herself
most days searching out signs of life
to feel what it would be like, to be
in trees, in leaves, to sleep in green towers
of garden lily bowers
to finally dream in lucid colors, surreal
climbing invisible ladders
in orchards of apple blossom Springs
to sing, sing, sing

Sitting on my porch,
A refreshing morning
Breeze gentling blowing,
Conveying aromatic scents
Of yard plants blooming,
The hum of fluttering Bee’s
Seeking Nectar among them.
The songs of early birds
punctuating all this convivial congeniality.
You can not purchase a ticket
to this particular show at any price.
Other than say,
An invitation to sit beside me.

Young dog at my feet,
Him with full tummy,
Basking in the sun.
I can almost see a smile on his face.  
Already he knows how to live.

There is tranquility here,
In my yard,
Among these plants and trees,
This grass so green, still fresh
With drops of recent rain a dripping,
The ethereal scent,
Of now wet earth arising.

No real need to go a traveling,
Far or even near a field.
I have almost all I need and want,
Right here in my yard,
on this porch of mine.

There is one other strong sensation here,
It is my feelings of utter contentment.
The simple things are always the best.

There is the tree--
it juts out of the earth,
a sword in the stone.

Alone in a field
of green grass, alone
amongst the flowers,
the emboldened
plumage.

The leaves, greeny finery,
ancient and reborn
age after age,
sag beneath the weight
of the breeze
and the clouds.

Late last night,
A spectral fog
Billowed off the lake,
Clouded down my street.
I thought to grab
My feathered fedora,
Stand, leaning
Under the yellow street light,
Hat pulled down to my brows.
I'd light a plain Phillip Morris,
And with the first pull,
Blow smoke through my nose,
Punctuating each syllable
With blue:
"A cliche is worth a thousand words."

I, like a robin in late fall, flew south
To escape memories of northern snows

I discovered mountain vistas, breathless
Oceans as warming as tropical seas
Food made with love and fresh ingredients
And old friends whom I met for the first time

The snows will fall as sure as I'll miss ya'll
Yet the heat of Dixie forever warms my soul

lost in the ashmoleum, lost
in antiquity.

i may have paid the price.



the museum is free.

accordingly.

as i said,
i could not help
but cry.

we do not often speak of it.



bound.

sbm.