autumn
beauty
sun flowers
bend
and
sway
but
bow
their
crowns
along
the
way
in
the
presence
of
God

Sunshine on
fragrant meadows
A metaphor for
my lady
She blessed me
with two children
And another baby.

I was raised as a mother,
Never as the daughter.
A burden they carried,
Never the healer.

I was the giver,
Never the receiver—
And for one single mistake,
I became the villain.

Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.

Perfection; great illusion.
Tell me is that where your demons dwell?
Are they in the garden, or the bottle,
Or some supreme personal hell?

Is flawlessness a virtue,
Or a distraction for the mind?
Is the appeal of the ideal
Truly a goal that’s so sublime?

Could a diamond be a paragon
Of what a body’s meant to be?
A texture unattainable,
Lacking relevance, ridiculously.

Do you seek the pure?
And can such a thing truly be real?
Beware the call of perfection,
For, in truth, there is no ideal.