Eyes make love
Heart is soul

A house is not a home.
A mother can make it so.
But...
when mother is gone
home is house
and so is just a thing
for home is in your heart
so travels where ever you go.

Cold seeps
through windows
through the places where door meets frame
through spaces between floor boards.
No matter how high the thermostat is set
cold will get through
and wrap itself
around my feet
like an unwanted cat
made of snow and ice.

Beneath the snow
the frigid wind,
the dirt,
lie little
ticking
time-bombs,
waiting for the warmth of spring
to set them off,
to explode through soil
in a carpet of luscious green…
they don't know
their reach for the sun
will be regulated
by
my lawn mower

The farmer needs to move his produce to market
But the harness for the mule is broken
And won't be fixed for another day

The farmer needs to go to market
but can't until the harness is fixed
The wagon wants to feel the road beneath its wheels
but can't until the harness is fixed
The harness wants to help but can't
it won't be fixed for another day
or so the tack man says
The produce knows that it needs to get to market soon
But can't until the harness is fixed
The mule?
He's happy in the barn and hopes
The harness is never fixed

In a small formation of ice
grasping to a New England stone fence
sits a seed
frozen
held there through no fault of it's own
frozen
held
unable to grow
to reach for the sun
until Spring's thaw

mark of a free man
is already our right
is cool
just a tool
as safe as any other tool

as common as the belt
is the most furious of all beasts
perfect for the following application
a good way to blow somebody's head off
more likely to **** you or someone you know

Easy to like
Easy to hate
Crooked or
just enabled?

Nothing tastes as good,
***** thin,
as alive feels

In thirty seconds everything can change
For better or not.

It is hard
to forget
to not hurt
when I see your picture
your words on screen
so it's pain for me
as you remain unseen

If those who make the rules
about what kids read
and when
think that non-fiction is best
and that neither fiction
nor poetry
has a place in the lessons
of older children
then the chances are
they'll never see this
because this isn't factual comment
it's a poem,
that's all.
or is it?

The little dog sits
staring out the large window
to the street
beyond

where he is a wolf on the Steppes
a jackal on the Serengeti
a coyote of the Mojave

But for now
he sits

My hope for you

Is to grow
to have a life
out from under the weight
of legacy
of tradition
of the memory of pain and death
that surrounds you

But I can not make you see
the hope I have for you
if your eyes are closed to the future
while your heart is chained to the past

Two trees stood in a wood
Three saplings grew beneath

One tree killed suddenly
in a storm misunderstood

The other dies slowly
from infestation

One sapling is transplanted
to another place out of sight
from the other two

Two are left
But one has turned towards
the sun

and the other

back to the stumps behind

so they no longer see each other

A place to hold things
like dishes
or secret meetings about Iraq

both with probably break at some point anyway

A stretcher by a roadside
some place hot
as long as the person on it
isn’t completely covered
there is hope

A guardian of the dune,
broken, a mere portion of it's once self
lies alone for a moment
in a rivulet left by tide's retreat
protected from wind's power
on little clumps of still damp sand
to dry in the cold sun
but soon
tide returns
and where you will lie to rest next
only the water knows

The indecision of a man
whether he be of power
or of the earth
is of his own making

Unraked leaves
no longer dry and skittish
no longer danced free by wind
sit
damp
cold
in limp piles
edges quivering in the evening breeze
reaching
longing to escape
decay

The anguish of loss
is compounded by the fact
That while she has gone from me,
I  live
and yet
am dead
to her

In the wake of an act
More evil than one could imagine prior to its being done
Who more represents evil?

The perpetrator certainly.

Or is the people who profess love
Of god
Of country
Of children

Little
Innocent
Children

Who refuse to talk
Or even threaten revolt
and more violence

Rather than discuss
possible ways
to reduce the chances of this
of Newtown
ever happening

again

If your house is on fire
the answer is not to make sure
that everyone is packing
matches.

If God is
And if God hates
Does he hate people for loving?
Does he hate an entire people for their equality?
Does he hate all who don't worship him the same way?
Or
If you believe in a vengeful God,
a hateful, punishing God
you must pause and wonder...
would he really hate and wreak vengeance
on twenty innocent children
for their people's tolerance and love of others
or on those who seek to spout hate
Intolerance of any of his creations while
cheering the slaughter of children?

If I tell my child
that she is safe at school
am I lying?
are we ever truly safe?
Anywhere?

Peace shattered
by insanity
holds no promise of healing
just of eventual sorrowful acceptance

When a boulder falls from a height
And crashes into the forest below
Focus not on the boulder
How it fell
Why
Focus instead on the sheltering oaks
In the peaceful forest
Shattered and broken by the unexpected impact
And the many little acorns they sheltered
Crushed
Which will never grow to tree

The great tree
Leans a bit more
Now that the wind and rain have passed
A few more branches lie beneath it on the ground
Torn by storm from where tree touched sky
But once again tree survives
Yet
The tree knows
That this time
Roots broke under the strain
Of wind and rain
And the likelihood is
It won't survive the next storm

The crunch of driveway gravel
announces the arrival
of traditional
friends
for a holiday
tradition

The old clay jar sits
tied to a tree with worn rope
a small arm sticking from its small opening.
The monkey sits
clutching an orange inside the jar
afraid to let go.
So they sit
both unaware
of the world beyond.
A world of tigers yes
but a world also filled
with more oranges that can be counted.

My newer driver
feels the excitement
of a ski jumper
as she is poised
in her car
at the top of our driveway
as the snow falls
and
her mind set
she is off.

Snowfall brings
peace
quiet
this winter's morning

The beaten dog trembles
at the thought of being free
and would rather stay
beaten

For if it's home
which is where one expects
the happiest to be
is this bad, then terrifying is
outside?

Tiny tots
in crimson hats ringed with fur
or green and white striped ones
with elvish ears on the sides
pile from the bus
or car
and
subvert
the no religion rule
by waving icons of Christendom
before their friends
at a place where
religion
is supposed to stay
at home.
Is it innocent or are they
the unwitting mules for
Christianity?

Turkey Day has come and gone
with food
and dec'rative fittings
So it's down with the harvest
and up with the Santas
and a month full of gettings and givings

Fear
of new
is the cloak
that obscures
opportunity.

That you can't see the positive before you
Or the gift you have been given
Or the change that reality has carefully draped around your shoulders
Has me in agony

How do you split a memory
equally so that each can have an equal part?

And what of the memories that only one
shared with the departed?
Like the three years when I was the only child.
Do I get those?
What of the four years before the third of us was born?
Do the first two of us have to split those.

What of that trip across country,
we all were there with mom
in the car,
at that motel in Kansas
with the pet dog, cat and rat.
How do we split those?

I ask because splitting the house
Has been so difficult
painful
hurtful
and agonizing.

And it's just a thing
not a thought
or memory.

I'd rather we keep the memories together.
In a that faded blue cardboard box on the shelf
And when pain and hurt are washed away by time
we can pull them out
sit around the table
and share them together.

What's done is done
and we move on,
apart
for now.

As inevitable as
this departure was
I pack lightly
and hurriedly
taking nothing but
the clothes on my back
and the memories of us
that is enough
to sustain me
Forever

I am thankful for you dear
and will until
you no longer hate me

I am sorry
I am sorry
I am sorry for your hurt
I am sorry for your loss
I am sorry for your fear
I am sorry for your anger
I am sorry for your sleeplessness

I hope that time will heal your hurt
I hope that you can understand that others share your loss
I hope that your fear of the new opens your eyes to the opportunities before you
I hope that you can see past the anger to the love we have
I hope you can understand that the sleeplessness is shared too
I hope
I hope

I gave up because it was too wordy.
I gave up because I didn't understand what the hell you were talking about.
I gave up because of the critique that made absolutely no sense at.
I gave up because I didn't have the time to devote to its pursuit.
I gave up.
I gave up.
Maybe I gave up too soon.

A friend I've never met in person
Prolific in his work here
Work that is good
Posts a note to say he's been wrecked

Wrecked my wind, water, sand
wrecked by chance
Is he ok?
I don't know

The note said only
He'd be away
with all that he'd saved
with his tablet and guitar

All that he'd saved
Away for awhile
Now my news feed is empty of his work
Save for the note that says he'll be
Away

A friend is a friend.
But after the wind has gone
a friend with power,
and an open door,
is a friend indeed

If the strongest bully
makes sure you know it
who intimidates and pushes around
to get his own way
to a point where he has no true friends
just nervous compatriots

suddenly

talks instead of terrorizing
helps instead of hurting
befriends instead of beating

do we care what the motivation is
or do we welcome the change

and how long until we trust him completely

If you don't but I do,
where does that leave us?

Do you know?
Because I don't.

Do you even care?
Because I do.

Deeply

Bury not me
on the lone prairie

scatter my dust instead
to the winds above your head

please let me land and forever stay
where people laugh, create and play

The reality is;

That mom is gone
That I am the oldest now
That there are things to go through
That there are things to get rid of

and to sell and

that's going to

hurt.

Upside down and
cupped by dehydration
an autumn maple leaf quivers in
the cool
fall breeze

then a

puff

and it scurries to meet its kind
at he edge of the drive