What my words wish for
is stare right back,
and make skin
the aching lack,
and make sinew
the fact
there is you.

There is a little boy knocking
‘pon the fence enclosed garden.
“Let in”, was such implore
to what stalwart warden—
guarding rows of verdant plumes,
yet complacent to the escaping
flowery fumes.

There is a pain-skinned man
‘pon the fence enclosed garden.
“I shall break in through yonder burl!”
Bit he with tongue full maddened.
Shaking all life curled underneath,
trembling the roses praying for teeth.

What took the words
so quietly in their sleep?
More room for that
we both gave tears to keep.
This happy monster
feeds within to sate (we weep)
cousin to ecstasy, kin to hate.

The new age is of the empath
those with eyes on their skins
who hear the words beyond the words
silence amidst the din
the song inside the song
The tender-eagle-eyed
roar of the sighs
sons and daughters of lions
alien to fear
servant to love
patriot to the true

The wild natural law of the universe
from micro to macro
hear its call and slough off
the callus of what broken
you still carry
leave behind yesterday’s appendage
to the feasting jackals of impending history
their story is destined to end

she knows the secret room
where the hurricane keeps its eye

this knowing~



*—Poems in “She” Sharp

we started with light
blind from the beginning womb
imprinted with invisible memories
of inherited eyes, mouth, smile,
bundled as an offering
to the random grasp
of circumstance
mothered to be mothers
fathered to be fathers
monstered to be monsters
preyed to prey
to dust, to dust
womb to tomb
there is just this next day
same as the next stepful taken
what other choice
the feet has a left and a right
you step on one
the next step follows
same as the morrow
same as the next breath
layers and layers of what follows
some know, some wait
but always
the shadows comes in late

she imagines a morning
rain knocks with its small hands
upon the window
louder than rain in the sills of her mind
she sees herself heating water
it is just water
not a wet scarred day
that blistered her memory
she picks a fruit from the bowl
it is just a fruit
it carries no histories of war
from foreign lands
nor scent of discontent
it snows
it is just snow
no ghost grasps her cold hands
under the knitted icy mantle
of its forgotten season

no ghosts came beseeching
that she remember
each name, each face, each leaf,
or countless shores
her faithful boots still visits
in reminiscence
she is a house no longer fit for haunting
perhaps such morning finds happiness
sauntering in with dainty paws
like a long lost cat
coming home