I tred a path too few have trod
I walk a narrow way, most favor the broad
What I do brings no fortune or fame
sometimes it brings a smile, oft only shame
Occasionally a friend will walk along with me
but rarely enough do they see what I see
So on this long road, I oft feel alone
I stop and think, and then I groan
for I tred a path too few have trod
I walk a narrow way, most favor the broad.

True it is a lonely road
my feet dance upon
But tell me how can I be alone
when there's Someone to lean on?
Someone waiting, watching me,
guiding me every toward the goal -
tis He who keeps me company,
the Savior of my soul.

in the cold of night the winter waits
as the autumn leaves fall unheard
their crushed brown skin lines the path
while the icy wind reaches my face
the road stretches out for miles ahead
running to the horizon and beyond
and though there is neither twist nor turn
it travels over many strange and lonely hills
and slants into many darkened valleys
before it disappears in its mysterious end
I see the finish in its blaze of brightness
an image of something clear but yet unseen
and when I look at the road that lies between
it looks cold and dark and a little empty
and everything out of my so limited grasp
is shrouded in the deeply swirling fog ahead
and all I have is the light shining before me
the promise that darkness will never fall
and the hope that this path is not all forever
for a moment I ponder the truth behind this journey
and see what an adventure it could be
how much more can a blind man learn of reality
than we whose eyes are clouded by what we see
and stepping forward I take the dare in silence
as the world behind me fades to a dull grey
and the light so bright grows brighter still
as with every step it grows nearer to me

little boy wanders through the cold dead town
he doesn't know how love ever let him down
like leaves in the wind we all blow away
and little boys wake up to another empty day
little girl in blue jeans and her cowboy hat
doesn't know much but knows where she's at
leans over and brags that her daddy's in jail
says she sends him letters in the US mail
old man on the curb got nothing to lose
runs his mouth a lot but the act's all a ruse
he's been through life he knew the beat
burnt it all to gain a streetside seat
momma on the corner's fourteen years old
the high point of her story's already been told
she had her dreams and her talent but that's all gone
the sun set on her life before she had her dawn
they call it "people" and show the faces on TV
name it culture and a new way for men to see
but not in the reflection of the mournful eyes
there's no joy in the echoes of their sighs

i came to the forest
reckless and ravished
hopeless and poor
i came for redemption
but it was no more

the trees starkly glaring
crushed leaves in my wake
a trail of all that was wrong
and all that remained was
the softness of the poet's song

i heard the song
enter the mountain
emerging a flowing river
it calmed the waterfall
and made the rock to stir

it echoed the valley
and sung of the moon
it loved and it left me
back where I began
with renewed eyes to see

i have entered the song
and the song has entered me
i have heard the harmony shift
as it completly transformed me
and left the twice-edged gift

i hear the song still
the melody lingers on
i love the sweet sad tune
but I cannot escape
the song's tragic croon

i am singing now
reconstructing the notes
trying to rewrite the song
into a higher, nobler key
but my task will be lifelong

i am a fugitive
from its call
it is ******* my life
and if i cannot stop singing
all will be lost in the strife

the sound stood up and looked at me
I stared in silenced astonishment
he breathed and I heard an echo
the stars drawn with a fallen leaf
I opened my mouth to reply
but the sound was nowhere to be seen

looking out my bedroom window
i see a stretch of endless black
called a street in normal life
this simplistic title fails for me
because it is a metaphor
carelessly constructed
of half-breathed truths
that echo something larger
i am the car that goes 55
through this lazy neighborhood
seeing what is on the side
but never quite deciding to slow
not that i could stop anyway
that is okay i gladly fly away
because even though i dread
the fact that i will never see
this beautiful street again
i journey to a destination
fairer than the one that is here
wave to me as i go by
weep for the neglect of youth
but never persuade me for a moment
that there is anything worth
stopping for except the end

this frizzle of excitement
daring--not daring--to hope
the flag feels the tug of the breeze
but can't unfurl
waiting.
to take in a breath, and not know
whether water or air awaits

Pain etches deep in the mother's heart.
Fear burrows into my soul.
Are the ducklings home,
And will they remain?
The moment, I can feel, is so fleeting.

If I could see the future, would I shudder?
One day will they hold me, or scold?
These days I'm writing now, will they return and haunt me?
Oh children, am I bringing you joy or pain?

These little ones are so simple to shepherd,
But they grow into each a man.
And the adult will reflect and stand alone and judge,
And I'm afraid they'll find me wanting.

I see my failures lined in a row
And I know there are more beside
Invisible to my eyes but written in their hearts
So fragile were these things I treated so roughly!

Pain etches deep in the mother's heart.
Remorse buried in my soul.
Can the ducklings, grown,
Forgive my mistakes?
These chances were so quickly fleeing!

sittin' in the bus station
waiting for number thirty one
watching the people around me
the woman with the little boy
and the old one looking lost
buses come and buses go
but the one I want never comes

I walk outside to stand on the sidewalk
waiting for number thirty one
ask the people where it is
finally they say it disappeared
somewhere in the north of the city
it could be here any moment
but I watch and it never comes

sitting on the bench in worry
waiting for number thirty one
to give me its precious cargo
they told me it would be here an hour ago
they tell me there's nothing they can do
they'll say there's no more information
and I watch for the bus that never comes

well I've been here too many minutes
waiting for number thirty one
my feet are hurting from standing so long
and I'm wondering if the bus is tired too
is the radio broken or does the driver care
I'm standing in chilling anticipation
watching for the bus that never comes

buses come and buses go
but I'm waiting for a special one
although with each new arrival I wonder
what if I'm looking for the wrong number
this bus or that bus could be my bus
and I could be here forever
waiting for a bus that never comes

flirtatious stolen glances resting
in the churches' company
speaking with inhonest subtleties
and darting furtive eyes
forthright is incarnate as a fool
as evasiveness is deified
carefully intertwining the moves
the delicate dance continues
speak and rejoin to play the part
in the precise code of conduct
step once wrong to tear the sail
disband aspiration and expectation
the night is too important to take heed
abandoning the morning

on the shore the water rises
as it swirls--swirls to cover my feet
I dig my toes into the softened sand
and consider the properties of land--
reaching down--I hold the grains in my hand
wondering at this pliant thing
that holds me here against gravity's wishes--
and what falling through would--feel--like

You.
The other mommies of babies
fallen from life
banged mercilessly on the pavement
of our wombs
and broken.

You
you held your baby
lifeless
but you held him.
you held her.
You took pictures.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day
your Facebook status—
you beg us to remember.

I understand this.

These little souls no one knows.
No one connected to,
no one will remember.
No one cares.

But we feel the fluttering.
We feel it in our hearts,
that desperate gaping—
and in our bellies.

You want us to know: your baby.
You, mother.
Soul vanquished.
Soul rent in two.
The weeping, the never was,
the forever is.

And so you post pictures
of the baby
you held
dead.

But we—
we are the mothers who flushed our children into toilets.

We are the mothers who tried and tried to grasp
to hold
our baby
our dead baby.

But ours was too small.

Fishing through mountains of gore
pieces
was that my baby?
is this my baby?

In silence.  Alone.  Torn with pain,
solitude, anguish, bleeding.

Grasping at something—
this might have been the baby.
Flush it down.

How?

Is this what mothers do?

You held your baby.
You ***** a memorial, maybe even a burial.
Or ashes.

We are the mothers who hold out ****** hands
in silence
and babies lost somewhere in the septic system.

Should we take a picture?
Do you want to hear our story?
On this day of infant loss remembrance,
do you want to hear how we caught
the amniotic sac
and held it up to the light
hoping
and terrified.
What if we saw the body?
What could we do?
There are no hospital or nurses in our bathroom.
No cameras.
No burials.
Only blood, blood everywhere—
and the toilet.
And the sac, if we find it—
it might burst.
And then our baby might go out with the mopwater
or lie unnoticed on the ceiling.

Somehow we lost our baby.
We can't find it.

I wish I could have held my baby,
given it a name.
But I lost it.

Weep with me, too.

I turn off the light
and dash madly into bed
as I pull the covers
high over my head
I observe a moment
of listening silence
before I peek out
in deathly suspense
to make sure every blanket
is away from the floor
once my task is finished
I don't worry any more
because I know
what lives underneath
and I'm quite alright
with him having big teeth
and being very hungry
big and strong
for he told me once
that we can get along
as long as I am good
never dangling an arm
or foot down to the floor
I have no cause for alarm
and I can sleep safely
because my enemy
is also my protector
he eats all, you see
and makes no exception
for you, or for me

Goodnight sweetheart
My mother whispers softly
Ride to Dreamland tonight
Mommy, will you come too?
I'll bring a double-saddle
And come by your window
Mounted on Midnight,
My jet-black rocking horse
Or you can ride your own
I mumble as I fall asleep
Midnight knocks on my window
I go out and hop on for a ride
And off we fly to Dreamland
We stay until he says we must return
As we head for the horizon
I fall asleep once again
To wake up in my bed
And continue my other life
Until the next night
When Midnight rides again

twirling landscapes on my fingertips
rummaging the depths of the sky
the shattered world at a glance
broken pieces failing to mend
and in the yelled whispers waiting
the syllables of frozen fear
echo the heartbeat of silence

the compass casually announces its disturbance
as if it weren't obvious by the needle of spinning red
guess I should've left the magnet alone
but I'm famous for finding every attraction irresistible
and it seemed so very near the road

swirling colors in my hand
sweet chocolate turns into dirt
believing in the impossible
but living in the now
I want a cutting scream
ripping through this mistiness
to break against the night

the roadsigns are all covered by dark green ivy
and the path is overgrown with tall brown weeds
I conclude I'm traveling in the wrong direction
but maybe only few find their way out here
and perhaps I'm supposed to continue on

maybe
if I stayed here
maybe
I'd be all right but
maybe
it'd be a dull life

Words fall; they clatter to the floor like
the shoes the five-year-old discarded
or things returning to gravity
after an extended time in space.

These thoughts had just been dancing
between us, whipping between us
ruffling our hair and mussing
any claim we had to perfection.

But then, you snapped your fingers
and they fell. Harmless, motionless
there on the floor where we dropped
them, and, by will, we forgot them.

Yet: I did not snap my fingers.
I let go when I saw your words fall;
I let go and mine fell too, joining
yours in sparse synchronicity.

(and you don't know what an act
of blank force that was for me
to fall with you in a mad hope
that I don't even grasp or hold)

I know you think it was your snap
alone that made the words fall down
to be dead and harmless echoes
for you to forget so promptly.

But I let go. Through bitter choice,
determination. Sad reaching
for character and battered love.
My words were pain; yours were knives.

I'm glad you dropped them. Obviously.
And I'm glad I did, seamlessly
so that you wouldn't notice how
we just papered over my blood.

Forgiveness is a sticky thing,
most brilliant when drowned in concealed tears.
And my words, fading equal with yours—
the messy debris of the holy.

I woke up to the shining sun
ignorant of the day to come
who knew a knife's power
to make perfection cower?

innocence and I fight and lose
I must not get to choose
not that I could wish this day
or the truth so far away

still it's here without rescue
I know I'm going to lose you
but it doesn't hurt to say
the new today is my cliché