The monsoon cloud swooped low
to **** her
and the night seemed to wear
the darkest cloak

Three miles down south
she had gone to the weekly haat
for half a litre of earth oil
thru mud as thick as her desire
for a small glow in her thatched hut

When she reached the stream
she paused on the brink
and then like an added note
to the music of rain
her swan little frame
glided to the other bank

The wind was shivering
but she was warm in the dream of
one small light in her home
to **** the demon of dark

What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts :

Late nights with
coffee , tea or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear

And the struggles and pain
as the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling as hard as ice on rain

Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage

One who struggles
with the a's and the's
Should one even use
The apostrophe

One who's words
Gel by the witching hour
Words full of promise  
Warnings so dour

But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
a true poet's heart

I’ve learned to love a blade’s edge…
I am nobody and somebody
with nowhere to go: the border between
Manhattan’s East and West Streets
ground and stone
reason and faith
mother and father,
the Father and the Son.

I’m the Holy Spirit, the shadow always
mediating between phrases “Serve me” and “Agape”…
I am this sentence. I want you, for this moment; this sliver
between life and death, this Mississippi cutting through
a continent. I was in Adam, after his expulsion:

Let the green apple be lodged in my throat
while washed in the image of Eden
before I leave, so in cursing my fate
and love what is…

Sharp and dangerous, always ready to use conscience
and **** according to judgment,
the thrill, the second where happiness
and sadness is satisfaction, I am there.

Nothing ever gets done without me.
I am a peninsula, imparting
land to waters and seas
divinity to mortality:
Pentecostal.

The blade’s edge ready to cut and be cut.
In the name of the Father and the Son
and me
Amen…
Go to heaven
if you cannot accept hell.
Go to hell if you cannot accept heaven.
As any mediator, I am a nation
unto myself, my fate, my exile.