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Sunday, June 25, 2017

Never Enough*




Never Enough*

Ah to return to that drunk besotted joy - 
anticipation actualized as you, new babe lay
a moment in the curve of my arms.  I stood 
rooted to this earth in sheer wonder
of the blessed now – in a blink, 
sly eye of the Universe, spun-snatch-
melted you to poetry manifested
words - Yet, each poem could be
torn and pieces flung to the wind , 
to drift dust- tattered when compared 
to the suddenly born actuality of 
the flutter of your newborn lash -
perfect and inscribed forever – The
soft weight of your reality remains –
echo of all that can be – in a future
as yet unwritten – For now – my soul
soared, seared and ever yours – 
always and a day ....and you sheer poetry 
begun in an eight plus pound package 
of joy everlasting 
growing, glowing 
stretching, cooing 
on ...




*one can never get quite enough of the miracle and magic of a new baby
dedicated to my new grandson Austin 

Never Enough


First time holding baby grandson Austin Monte 



Never Enough*

Ah to return to that drunk besotted joy - 
anticipation actualized as you new babe lay
a moment in the curve of my arms - I stood
rooted to this earth in sheer wonder
of the blessed now – in a blink
sly eye of the Universe spun-snatch-
melted you to poetry manifested
musing - yet each penned poem could be
torn and pieces flung to the wind
to drift dust- tattered when compared 
to that suddenly born actuality of you-
the flutter of your newborn lash -
perfect and inscribed forever – the
soft weight of your reality remains –
echo of all that can be – in a future
as yet unwritten – for now – my soul
soared, seared and ever yours –

always and a day ....and you sheer poetry 
appearing as an eight plus pound package 
of joy everlasting 
growing, glowing 
stretching, cooing 
on... 




*one can never get quite enough of the miracle and magic of a new baby
dedicated to my new grandson Austin 

The Sunday Whirl    
words:
snatch, single, tattered, sly, dust, spun,
lash, drunk, rooted, sheer, curve, blink

Sunday, June 4, 2017

"look for the helpers"




as the departed but always present Mr. Rogers said... 

“look for the helpers”


some will say such is a sign of a soul
that will spare no cost to tear the
fabric of freedom forever –
some will say that terror is a gift of
love toughest that will lift all nations
to rise to their better selves …
I say that despite the fierce or flighty
Despite the deeds that dismay, taunt or
Terrify –it is the mercy of morality that
Shall always open the jar that holds the
firefly to soar sparkling – and thus bind
all wounds despite origin of infliction.








photo by 
 
The Sunday Whirl

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Crack






Crack 

oh it lay there - small neck
snapped - each tiny limb 
crimped on the stones 
oh it lay there 
it could just as easily 
been her hope-itself
still-in this season of
cold grass turning -
something lovely
overlapping 
dank dread 
the seep of 
soul as she 
prodded 
her-
self 
B
r
e
a
t
h
e




Saturday, May 13, 2017

Ah Mother's Day




Ah Mother's Day..

filled with spectral 
color, depth and 
dimensions of all
the beating heart 
can bear, memory
of first cries - and
satin skin - of tears
of joy and anguish
of parchment good-
byes and joyous
hellos -of heinous
heartbreak and
inexpressible joy
Ah Mother's Day...
when the Great
Mother Earth her-
self sighs and
sends crashing
seas and gentle
rains to flourish
power, passion
and love beyond
measure or
replication -
Ah Mother's Day..
for all those who
emerged from womb
or entered a welcome
room - for those who
now sparkle in the
whisper of the wind
to those whose power
stirs conflict and heart-
ache ...cry silver tears
Ah Mother's Day...
may all find the
sparkle of love in the
gift of life and for those
fortunate enough to
attach joy to a particular
mother ... be she in your
arms or ensconced in the
mystic magical memory
of your heart
dance 
because of
or inspite of
dance 
the dance of life


Ahhhhh..... Mother's Day.....


Sunday, May 7, 2017

Origins


a twig snapped in the slashing rain
and the mother weary with labor lifted
her head wobbling on thin stalked neck
and looked toward the sound only she
heard – the others off to side swapping
stories sitting in ash around the small fire
one blackened limb touching another their
shadows stretching up the cave wall – she
could feel the rain as though it poured clean
and cool – she could feel the rain as though
spirits of the grand mother of all walked with
clean feet and soft hands and lifted her in
this cavern of pain and indifference, washed her
body and hair free of sweat and desperation and
agony and delivered born unto her a swaddled infant –
as the rain stilled to the mist – radiates of a new dawn
showering her shoulders as she stood infant to breast
in the doorway looking out onto a ribbon of tomorrow
poised to walk …. 
she smiled 



Thursday, April 6, 2017

OH OMRAN AND YOUR BLOODY BUDDIES



OH OMRAN AND YOUR BLOODY BUDDIES
Oh Omran and your bloody buddies
the grownups play at messages, missiles
and airplanes – gassing up and guessing
gawking at convulsing pre-rigormortised
contortions – Oh Omaran, they’re talking
and shocked at the pictures of hoses and
water trying to wash away the sin and
stain … talking about strategies and coming
consequences, droning on about droning
and force, playing at messages and missiles
when you know – you know that all it would
take would be to pull up the tanks to the border
open doors and arms wide and pull you all up –
gather you all and drive off to safe sanctuary
leave those who play at murder alone –
allow your still living buddies the breath of
unsullied air into far flung freedom – for it
would be they who would blossom across
this globe until those who revel in death and
destruction dried, abandoned in the rubble
of their creation consigned to wander without
target for lunatic rage. Oh Omran, and your
bloody buddies – move over – for I must sit for
a while, pulling at my own hair – staring blankly
in helpless confusion at my own blood- stained
fingertips – typing words into an unchanging wind –
military might -
but rescue is certain –
If this seems ungrateful...
catch a surviving speck of
ash floating in the histories
of six million and far far more
Ask the ghosts which they choose
Oh Omran and your bloody buddies....
You know.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Nostalgia

Nostalgia 





First

To that primal place I follow ...
into the garden of youth – rise in
conflagrated- creation of shadow and
shame – come near – reach - eyes
touching - the base of an other throat
with first kiss –
burst 
to flame