She can not understand
how much a heart can desire
something it never had.
Those little hands and little toes
soft coos and a tiny, button-nose.
Wrapped in white, an angel sleeping,
peaceful and drowsy,
with all the angels waiting.
With hands that don't know how to stay
and cries are all to communicate,
a darling angel grows and cleaves,
relying on one for all she needs.
And wherever in Heaven she may be,
your lonely mother waits for thee.

There strolls another father,
Scrolling while his daughter
Rides her stroller as they stroll.
He really oughtn't scroll,
She's awake as they stroll;
It's a stroller, not a scroller.

The purpose of a stroll,
Is to walk and talk the prattle,
The speach that infants rattle
While strolling in their stroller.

Sing to your child,
Stroll all the while,
Hum or whistle,
Mumble……..Grumble;
But don't silently scroll on,
While strolling with the stroller.

Recall childhood rhymes, if you can,
Say the ABCs or count to ten;
Talk of little piggies and brazen toads,
Meaningful memories,
And yellow brick roads.

Enjoy your strolling.


Enjoy your scrolling.

Return to infancy;

Before true perception and intelligence
            Were explained away,
Before the mind joined the infantry,
Before we learned to be rationally afraid
                                           Of everything.

Aromas of childhood wafting through
Are they immortal in you, O wayward Wind?
For I've aged in myself
metamorphosing through linear years;
And the freshness of youth which was once beheld, now
Has all but been buried under the dunes
Of shifting memories accumulated;
Where there once was an oasis of innocence—
Where bathed this pristine soul;
But since has been evaporating from this cloudless arid clime.

Methinks you've vaulted my scent of nascent-hood
O dear, dear omnipresent Wind,
So that I may inhale the tang of youth
Cycled back by your exhalation
So that I, may gulp a self, that was once closer to the truth.

patterned love responses
spiraling outward from
the chest in search
of hearth and
hemlock to
soothe the brittle
bones of a
generation lost
to time.

I remember a feeling
once felt in
the spacious quality
of my life
in its infancy.

a 'coo' to my
mother--her face
beaming through
the unknown
harshness of life
yet to touch me.

father was out
working, adding
more and more
points of stress to
his life to provide
for the seeds
he sewed in the
soil of his youthful
ignorance.

adulthood snuck
up on me too and
now its too late to
go back.

these days
the only coup
that will save me
is the one
I perpetrate
against myself.
the one that
corrodes my beliefs
and illuminates
the extent of their
misconceptions about
the world and
what it means
to be me.

loyal are the lashes
that lick my flesh
serving the blood
that drips and
flows to the
soil of my own
wasted youth.

all I can do now
is look forward
to the unknown
that looms ahead;
terrifying and promising
failure and change
alike.

pray to your altars
and cry to the
invisible mute gods;

they will answer
in kind in the
laughter of children
playing upon
your spent life.

and so it goes--
life eats life
and mother's die
too.

use your voice
while you have
it--speak of clouds
and storms that
broke you, of winter
and the living
silence you've endured.

praise be to the
broken and the
weary of heart, for
in the breaking is
the great gift
of life

and what you
become after each
shattering is nothing
short of your
endless potential.

i was an insect
on a divine windshield
a speck of dust
on an otherwise stainless garb
when wiper blades swept me down
in my infancy
a young brood
i am guts
i am blood
i am gross things