IT seemed as though
the sun had come out to
play, just for a minute
or two, to catch a breath
and maybe give mom
a little bit of a break
but the clouds moved
in, again, the sun ran home
and I buttoned my coat
against the cold winds

I HAVE been reading the poems of
     Marie Howe, "What the Living Do"

A woman, oldest of many children
Abused by her father
And abandoned by the death of a beloved brother

Her poetry is mostly beautiful, melancholy thought
     on these topics
And yet, she manages to bring spirit, love, and
     hope where I would only look for despair

In the margins of her poem "Prayer" someone
     has written in pencil:

     1. I want to write about god and suffering and
          how the trees endure/what we/don't want--
          the long dead months before the apple blossoms
     2. I've been thinking about how the Sorrow of men
          is different from the sorrow of women,
          tonight i don't know how
     3. I have been thinking that maybe I will release
          myself from all this pain, before i read to the end
     4. And it went on like that through the night we made
          up until we could pretend it was morning

Sometimes

It hurts so much
to just give it away

I know that sometimes
that's just the way, but
it hurts almost every day

I know, I know, about
every day, but I hurt
and when I hurt

I say why,
why does it have
to be this way

I thought that this
time you had come
to stay

And that's why it hurts today

So now, I just
have to say,
won't you please
please just stay
away!

Will you build me up
and put me back together
or will you fill me up
just to drain me altogether

There is no sound coming
from the radio tonight
with nothing left to say
and a little more to lose

Did you find your way
and lay it on the line
work it all out
without saying anything

Not expecting any answers
while questioning everything
too much information
but never let inside

Did you notice how
you walk too far behind me
when trouble comes around
will you still be there beside me

I'm not the most
put together person.
I'm really a small
hurricane of a girl.

I am not a metaphor
or a simile.
Not a ****** mystery
or a floral print dress.

I am flesh and blood,
bone and sinew.
I bend and break,
and snap back again.

I will keep you on your toes,
and never let you rest.
I will love you with everything
I have.

I will **** your marrow dry,
if you look at me the wrong way.
I am unafraid,
and I have nothing to lose.

I am a stack
of paperback books
and a broken
typewriter ribbon.

I am gale force winds,
and raindrops like steel.
I am wounded pride
and a mended fence.

I am learning to forgive myself.