after the rain
I see raindrops glisten
on your tender breast

Nobody lived in a village green-
Nobody wed the girl of dreams.
Nobody worked, and nobody earned-
Nobody fought, and nobody learned.
Nobody planned, and nobody schemed-
Nobody hoped, and nobody dreamed.
Nobody loved, and nobody lost-
Nobody knew what love would cost.
Nobody laughed, and nobody cried-
Nobody lived, and nobody died.

I thought I saw your face the other day.
I looked outside the window at the rain,

and as I watched the cold take hold,
the frosted ground embraced the frigid day.

I gazed upon the glass, somehow hoping that
your face would fill the space you left inside me.

But all I saw was empty glass,
crying for your face

to trace the tears of rain
you left upon the frozen window pane.

The shepherd will take care of us-
Baa baa baa.
You mustn't think the less of us-
Baa baa baa.

We're really not so bad, you know-
Baa baa baa.
We shouldn't be so sad, you know-
Baa baa baa.

You needn't raise a fuss for us-
Baa baa baa.
They only want the best for us-
Baa baa baa.

We all must give the shepherd a chance-
Baa baa baa.
He plays the tune, and we all dance-
Baa baa baa.

We're so afraid of the wolves at the door-
Baa baa baa.
With names we can't pronounce anymore-
Baa baa baa.

Don't let the bad ones get to us-
Baa baa baa.
The shepherd is the best for us-
Baa baa baa.

My lover's not so commonplace-
Strong of mind, and fair of face-

She paints her nails, she paints her toes-
Who knows where my lover goes?

The birds fly here and everywhere.
They even nest within her hair.

They sing a song of fated love.
They scatter in the skies above.

When she walks by, leaves in the trees
Whisper her name. Or is it the breeze?

She loves me not. Who is to blame?
She does not even know my name.

all the days of sea and sand
must surely curl away

relentless as the ebb
and flow of tides

as shorebirds hunt and peck
in sand and grit their lives away

other birds have made themselves
at home next to the crystal shore

their offspring pink
and warbling in the sun

young females preen their plumage
scrawny males hover in lust

later on the clouds come open
and all the shorebirds

damp and shivering
huddle under the eaves

fragrant with salty spray
teasing the senses

as the shorebirds
shimmer in the gloom

under boardwalks of dusk
and ice cream nights

I never heard the bullet call my name
I never felt the sunlight wash my face
I never heard my newborn baby's cry
I never saw her cradle when I died.

No one told me war was just a game
(they said I was a warrior- I was not)
that old men play with us, like we are toys
(they said I was a hero- I was not.)

Tell them to go and press my clean fatigues
and put my golden chevrons on my sleeves.
Tell my honor guard to have a care
for those who cannot know what soldiers bear.

Battlefields reveal the ways of war-
the bayonet impaled within a womb,
the scorching of the flesh that was a man-
rubble, piles and piles, an endless tomb.

If those who have a care for me and mine
may wish to say some words I'll never hear-
tell them, go away, and leave me be.
Tell them, mud and blood belong to me.

I thought I heard her footstep on the stair,
the ghost of sorrow. Lingering on the staircase
of my dreams, she curled up like a ball

at the feet of longing. I had forgotten all
about her, after she kept another's company.
But there she was, bitter and alone

once again. What was sorrow now to me?
Only remembrance of how it once was-
the furtive glance, the stolen kiss,

the hidden measure of time passed
hand to hand. Time is what I have
for her no longer, though the memory of her

presses like a twisted nerve on an irregular heart.
Let her leave her fragrance on another's bed
where ghostly sorrow longs to rest her weeping head.

The ancient ones, when warfare came to stay,
knew what to do. They combed their hair
upon the rocks. Blades grew keen and bright.
Greaves were fastened sure about their *****.
Heads encased in helmets; eyes grew somber.
Return with all your shields, the women cried,
or else upon them. Battle smeared their tunics
red with blood. Some came home, and some
found homes where spirits are embraced.

Their descendants know a different way of war,
more lethal and more telling-
the bombard and the mass assault,
the arquebus and pike,
the canister and cannon,
the minie ball and shell,
mustard gas and trench mortar,
the blitzkrieg and the mushroom cloud,
cluster bomb and ******,
and silent death from above.

Some believe the noble way
is killing face-to-face-
but I confess that death at distance
also has its place.
Ancient peoples fought their battles
firmly on the ground-
but we fight on a sea of war,
and we must swim, or drown.

Tell me if you will, dear one,
of what was meant to be-
I did not know the tears you shed
were shining there for me.

When we were young, I held your hand
and whispered in your ear-
but when I looked into your eyes,
your words I failed to hear.

I should have known your heart was true,
and given fair to me-
but now I know no good will come,
no good, for you and me.

Say there, you old fool,
what have you been up to?
Day and night you chase the moon
till daylight comes again. Why?
Her glow is much the lesser light
than yours. Don't you know
her sheen is you reflected?
Yet you persist, while other
stellar bodies stay neglected.
Best not to fuss with Venus-
her Mars is much too jealous.
Mercury is much too hot, thanks to you,
and Earth is way too quarrelsome.
Saturn would run rings around you,
and as for Jupiter? I know
of no planet stupider. Neptune
is altogether frosty, and Uranus
is simply out of the question,
in this or any other dimension.
And Pluto hardly seems a proper
planet anymore- not in this galaxy,
that's for sure. No, old Sol,
you'd best retain your sorry lunar love-
as the moon evades your grasp
and flirts with stars above.

Monday killed her, murdered in the dawn.
Wednesday bore the box wherein she lay.
Tears of Thursday saddened all the ground.
Friday swore of vengeance for the crime.
Saturday, indifferent, held his peace.
And Sunday ****** all the days to hell.

He huddled in the woods,
In the trees, in the grass,
Clutching Spring to his *****.

Damaged, cracking, his envy
Frozen in time, he knows
She cannot remain much longer.

The tighter he holds
The more she yearns
For her freedom.

Melting his lust to nothing
With a final lurch
She slips his frigid embrace.

She yawns. She stretches.
She breathes. And we,
The all-too human children

Craving her renewal
Believe in warmth again
And what it means to us.

I once loved a girl without fortune or fame-
The gold with no glitter-
The pearl of no price.

Her heart was the gem I could not obtain-
The gold without glitter-
The pearl without price.

My heart full of passion, no love in her voice-
The gold lacking glitter-
The pearl had no price.

Today she lies deep in a grave of her choice-
The gold lost its glitter-
The pearl lost its price.

how sweetly she must hiss at me
my diamond death

I never meant to harm her day
she caught my breath

as I walked in green serene
in blessed ignorance

her gentle warning rattling
said her fangs were meant for me

for death is a woman
her coiling built for striking

gingerly I keep my distance
from beauty such as hers

as I bid her farewell
enjoy your sunlight

my love my death my dream
my sweetest of sweet poison

These are the hands that bring you into the world,
and these are the hands that take you out of it.
These are the hands that cling for dear life
to a capsized boat in the sea.
These are the hands that wield a knife
that cuts your life to save it.
Some of these hands are cracked and torn
from all the labor that tears them.
Some of these hands reach out to a man
who despairs of receiving deliverance.
Some of these hands belong to the women
who lift up and give strength to the sufferers.
Some of these hands are soothing a child
that cries in a night full of sorrow.

Some of these hands are praying to God
and some of them pray to Jehovah.
Some of these hands are praying to Allah
and some of them pray to Buddha.
Some of these hands pray to the Spirit of Man
and some of them pray to Brahma.
Some of these hands pray to a Higher Power
and some of them pray for a sober tomorrow.
Give thanks to the hands of all those you esteem.
Remember the hands of love, of hope, and of dreams.

A mother young in life will give
her babe the breast until the weaning time.
Then cries and supplications fill her ears-
much frustration, a hearty chorus of tears.
Where has my milky comfort fled,
says the babe, sulking in sorrow's bed.

I heard tell once of another Babe,
soothed at His Mother's breast, quiet and serene,
and destined for a greater sphere than this.
When He was weaned, did He cry
and shake His tiny fist, and rue the day?
Or did He know of what the future held,
that He would nurse at the ***** of his Father,
and hang from Redemption's blessed Tree?

I saw it glitter
on the walk outside my door
a watch with no hands

the band was old
and cracked
the crystal scratched and dull

the universe consists
of bits of time
measured in a universal mind

the stellar stopwatch
ticks its way
from cosmic to mundane

how may we be measured
perhaps by the tossing curls
of a young girl's hair

cascading ringlets
singing in memory
perhaps by piercing loss

of what was close
yet all too distant
youth is dragging

chains of time
behind it
age will long for time

but fail to grasp
in a world where
no one escapes unscathed

time has kept us captured
perhaps the watch
with no hands

its handlessness endearing
will grant us time
to be human once again

Spinning in her silken gyre,
all the bugs obey her laws.
The gods bestow their plain desire.
Dear girl, the fly awaits your jaws.

This is not a lover's kiss
nor nightingale's delight-
this is neither cri de coeur
nor passion burning bright.

This is not a young girl's wish
nor whispers in a breeze-
these are merely careless words
that lovers beg from me.

A woman made of paper lies in bed.
Skin like parchment curls around her frame.

The tubes that tie her arms to bed
buzz like ****** in her veins.

A man of God stands by her bed
bearing brutal sabbaths in his hands.

His fingers made of paper, fingernails aflame.
And all the wasp woman wants

is to stretch her crispy paper wings
and fly away to heaven.

left foot                                                 right foot
toes flex                                                ankles whisper
such tendons                                         soothing calves
little hollows                                          backs of knees
firming hams                                          singing strings
so maximus                                           her gluteus
spine serpentine                                     how undulous
soft shoulders                                        rounded corners
hands caress                                         twin handrails
her flight arrests                                    a backward glance
what are you                                        staring at
only you                                               ascending love