I know my way out of this prison
but keep pecking at the trigger
for the food
that will never come again.

the sweetness of lust tinged with hope of love
the hope of being known
hope of being held in safety
the yearning to have it be real

I know the way out of this prison
but keep looking backwards
for the hands
that are closed on empty air

the sweetness of hands reaching out in yearning
aching with a promise
burning in their own dark loneliness
the hope that this might be real

I know this way out of my prison
know if I keep on walking
the walls will fade into mist
the light and air clean on my face

the sweetness of honesty and life
reclaiming what they've nurtured
my heart is safe in my own hands
and I hold today, which is real

Steam rising from hot cotton
Memories stirring
Turning a collar and smoothing under buttons,
first the inside, the plackets
then the shoulders, cuffs and sleeves.
Who knew the ironing of a shirt
could be such a minuet of parts
and caring
and thoughts?
The flesh these folds would clothe, the
hunching of the shoulders, the
reaching out of hands from
clean
crisp
cuffs.
My mother learned from my father learned from his mother
and I to you
bring hot fresh cotton
my love.

It is inevitable if we are determined
to take chances with our heart
that we find it shattered some mornings
Only when we must bend
to fetch the shards
do we again wish that we had been safer
more cautious

But then
when I think about life without such love...
I smile that Mona Lisa smile
I know myself better than that

Some people brave mountains or the stars
I dare to love crazy and wild

I was there when a doctor had to tell a couple that their baby was dead.

He was very gentle.

He took the ultrasound

and put it on the woman's belly, because the baby was still in there.

And showed the husband and his wife their baby's heart.

That it ws not beating.

It was so quiet.

The room was so quiet.

And then the husband said, it isn't beating.

And the doctor said, No.

And the mother said, what can we do.

And the tears just silently going down my neck.

And the father asked, can we start it again?

And the doctor said, I'm sorry.

And the wife said, Oh, Honey...

Our little baby...

And he said I know.

Do you like it when I tell you my deepest thoughts?
That I fling them into cyberspace;
That I so yearn to be exposed
Stripped and shamed
I will tell you whence they came?

Do you like it when I share with you my darkest dreams?
That I rummage through them carefully,
That I so yearn to be known
Deep and sweet
I will hold them up for you to see.

Do you like it when I call to you, expecting no response?
Knowing you are silently aware.
Not hearing any whispers
In my heart,
Nor pretending on your part.

Hello you
Yesterday I had an epiphany about what you do
You have spoken about the hero-status of the uniform
And the depravity beneath it
However
However
The work, the career of rescue and disaster relief, whether from heaven or hell
Is heroic
I have saved lives
Battling uteri that would send the mother out the same door through which the infant just came
Wading through the sea of clotted blood
To find the flaccid muscle to hold death at bay
Have pumped hearts that lie quivering
Slapped and pumped infants with the fixed dilated pupil
And no matter the role we play in that
No matter
How tired it kills us
And how we find rejuvenation
It is heroic work
Even when we cannot bear the role any more
I have been recuperating from that job since you have known me
And I want to say I had forgotten the price.
And that you continue to pay the price of hero-work
The real price

these dreams

these counterfeit dreams

even these I mourn,
having traded them for mine
my own
in my journey toward loneliness
with you

now
how I
rummage
in the backs of kitchen drawers

fumbling
for the originals

loving and
of course doomed
you can see it in every word and line
how we know even in loving we are doomed
to die in heartbreak and loss
daily deaths that leave us gasping
the searing lungs
the wrenching heart
the heaven-seeking eye
the bitter gut
protesting at continuing this life
without...

without...

without
love

startling awake to the sound of our name

no...

but...

no

I am grateful
For your cruelty.
It you were kinder
I would be utterly lost.

the night is
dark
a moth flickers through the light
and is gone
I stand at the doorway,
my house empty at my back
and look to the road
up which you will come
to say good-bye

tll1973

when thought sleeps deeply in the darknesses of the soul
and the mind ticks steadily on
the body's at rest
and sleep comes sweetly
then, that is peace

but when memories of golden days past
stir themselves in the cold brightness
a certain tightness forms in the darkness
travels to the throat
and if tears cant come to wash it away
it sticks
and that is pain

Without you...

Nothing is empty
Nothing is lost
Nothing is ugly
Nothing is in vain
Nothing is alien
Nothing beautiful fades
Nothing sweet loses it's character
Nothing deep loses it's resonance,

but...

Nothing is you.

There is an endless field of flowers
a sky untrammeled above
sweet gasps of warmth
lifting my hair to the sun
a tickle of coolnness beneath
the quiet space where I wait

Here is a cup with tea and smiles.
Here is a meal, hot and fresh.
Here are my hands with skills to help.
Here are my eyes with truth to see.
Here is my heart with love for love for love for
reaching out to you.

These words just sit here

While you struggle to breathe...

I am strangled by my need to reach you

With the pure water

dear lights

Passing on, passing on...

wonder what tune they whistle now
what sort of beauty they structure and spin

there, beyond this worry and woe

wonder what wonder they felt before reaching out for their new-cast burdens of joy

and joined in the
Unity! Unity! and Praise!

leaving weeping shadows behind...

did they?
cast one last glance
over their shoulders

of pity and understanding

as we bend to resume our urgent tasks of love
hoping to earn the key to That door.