There was a special little part of me
It slipped away on Saturday
The pretty bird let out a cry and flew
It wasn’t forced, It wasn’t sure
But curious and soft, demure,
I gave that little part of me to you.

I cannot count the times I tried
To make her stay, I cannot lie
A white lace gown would surely be ideal
But in your eyes I get so lost
I changed my mind; I paid the cost
You see, it’s just the way you make me feel

I hope you keep my little bird
Close to your heart—a silent word,
A gift, that you will treasure all your days
She cares about you; hear her sing!
And you, you are my everything,
I hope that I will be with you always.

Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down
The children cry
Down their sorrows and tribulations
To a hankering disposal
With ceaseless churning and grinding
The heavy bruised weights
Under eyes drag the soul downwards
Until drifting into another world
The peaceful dark place in which
The inner ear has no control over balance.
Be still my arms, my chest, my throat—
Let not heavy eyes grow blue and sore
Let me sleep, just sleep, just sleep…

Reaches of my smile
Rocking like a fishing boat
Trying not to laugh.

My mother’s eyes still redden
Like a hurt child
Too tough to open and cry

His hands were too pink
His veins were too blue
His temper was too short

My mother has a shell
And she loves it,
Hides her, hides her.

His heart could not sing,
His father had set
Him in his ways.

My mother hade tried
She reached for his hand
Itching for three.

His love for his Savior
His falling from it
His deep silent cage

My mother is quiet
About what has been
She’s left it behind.

His crawling through the door
His overtaking disease
His saggy lipped drawl


My mother’s hands are warm,
Never repeating the past.
Tending child and garden.

He sits there the same
A dull man consumed
Waiting to die.

My mother paints a smile.
She wears it always
Skirting around the topic.

I am eyeing the place upward between the bees and the ground--
I hear buzzing. I hear hushing.
I am drinking the potion of greatness from dolls surrounding
In a dollhouse. On the stage.
I am a puppet of plot and character and episode
The sky. Is the limit.
I am moving each muscle in the magic flow
Of energy. Of the theatre.
I am speaking words that fly up high
To the heart. To the people.
A bird on God’s stage.

Sift down to the gritty, shaking hands rock to and fro like a Ferris wheel car
Struggling each sinking stone to shush, to mute entirely, to caress each knuckle
To reassure—or at least calm the twisting worm on the dry sun caked pavement.
I listen to each breath in my ear, a mirror to things past, a gentle sloshing of misfortunes
Round and round the acid wall where the memories paint my smile
One pin ***** could spew cannibal poison in my cavity and eat me from the inside out.

The veiled things pushed to the back of the top shelf sink their dull talons downward
The pain was sharp once—the wound fresh and inexperienced, weeping non stop,
But now it is dull…sore like the dark morning in winter. A boarded up cabinet.
Yet always in my vision, always, always—a grey murmur, subtle yet driving me,
The vigil, to pry my lids open. To feel the sting of air gnawing at moisture—
To place black lilies on the casket of our love, and never ever look away.

I thought I was merely plucking fluff
From feather stuffed pillows
Now my heart pounds
And longs to ring a new bell
Strange, unnerving, and all too wonderful
Was there an open door there—?
There on your fingertips?
Is there milk maid anywhere to finish her churning job?
So butter can be made.
Maid made. Makes me no longer maid.
Pushes me into the ever black forest
Of your eyes.

I wear a sweatshirt
So you can’t see how bright
My heartstrings are shining
So you can’t figure me out—
It just wouldn’t be fair, considering I am not sure
Of myself, myself.
Sinking in warmth through the crystal night
Just yesterday I wouldn’t have given this a thought
And now here we are-- together—maybe?
My only greatest hope
Is that the door on the tip of your finger
Is not revolving.