as fragile
as a songbird -

her hands

knotted and spotted
from many winters


november came one last time -
i held her hands in mine - gently

- gently, she flew away
to where songbirds go
when it's cold in the mountains.

r ~ 11/18/14

I hunt
the beasts inside me
and sell their skins
to you.

The boy who had lost sleep
for years by staring
at the blurry horizon
found his dream
nestled in an oyster shell
near his feet on the seashore.
It took him a lifetime
to learn.
The dry petal
of his countenance
was granted rain.
All it required
was a meditation in struggle.

When I bring your broken song
back to your broken self,
when I follow your voice
and reach the ends of your shore,
let me into you.
Lead me to that little child
who tries to sing her way out
of her self-imposed walls.
Bring her to my consoling arms.
We will lie down in your depths
and watch you mend yourself
as you sing to the moon.
We will quietly fall asleep
to the rhythm of your words.
Words that echo
in the theater of a still night
and rhyme in accord with
the tides of a forlorn sea.
Words that soothe
our damaged souls.
All the songsters of the night
can never hope to recreate
the music of the world
I have found in you.

Blue wine in a glass chalice
for him to drink after *******.
He'd rather welter in earthly pleasures
than confront his disciples now.
The sheep has a lost shepherd.
And he'd like to take a boat
back to his earlier self
and find out what he could have
otherwise been,
where he could have
otherwise sailed.

She had enough.

They poured her a cup again.
They had given her all -
Advice, punishment and pain.
They still went for her soul.

They said it’s a scary world
And locked her up inside
With curtains in which to fold
And walls to chain her mind.

They said her dreams were futile
And scripted all her days.
They sneered when she was fragile
And ***** her in all ways.

I found her so moth-eaten
And from all fighting, tired.
She could not bear to listen.
She had enough, she said.

I don’t blame her for what she did later.
She had enough.