I wonder what the tumbling star
whispers
as we are leaving;
soaring and simultaneously
falling through space,
a fragment of destiny and dust.
What hand, what face,
what language bids us come
In the end.....
What script does the scribbler pen
In the end.

Bagette Street

I want to walk down Bagette Street,

to feel my feet on the solid ground

that witnessed my mothers first wail of I Am,

a screaming uninvited guest

who made her appearance long after my Grandmother

had ceased to entertain any wish

to suckle or nurture another hungry infant.

I want to go to Baggette Street

to sit on the sagging stoop, warped from the weight of our history,

and listen for the faint whisper of a child...

Do the creaking boards hold memories of her laughter?

Did she ever shriek with unadulterated glee?

I know she wept a seeping spillage of tears

from a morterd well of sorrow

that never new a drought year, never dried up or emptied

no matter her wailing and her weeping.

I can see firey curls poking wildly above the porch rail,

as she pranced on the floor boards of her lonliness...

With dead bodies sharing space between handcrafted furniture

in the bowels of the basement

under her running and playing.

Her Father, the first mortician in the county to embalm,

drained blood from the lifeless and replaced it with liquids of preservation.

The same fingers that crafted wood and word.

He was a little Banty Rooster, his poetry and whimsy

published regularly in the town crier...

His furniture holding up the hundred years required to be an antique.

And he beat the ginger child for a violin lie

and a tween truth;

balanced on the boundaries of her innocense.

She gave up the violin and never trusted love again...

I want to go to Baggette Street;

birthplace of the womb

whose only living fruit

Is me.

Funny Isn't It?

Funny isn’t it,
How your fingers have
scrawled and crawled
across the miles of mystery, where
Your hand has laid itself down
upon my trembling heart; and made its
soothing connections.
Its not just your words,
the music in your lyrics
the rhythm in your heartbeat
the sensing of your tears...
It’s the story of your years
the life between the lines
Resonating with memories
that are mine....
Washing away space and time,
fusing pain and
celebrating joy...
Dancing naked in the rain.

Elegant Bones

In the end
we will be stripped down
to our elegant bones,
bare and naked as we entered,
without the burden of possessions or status.
Others will follow,
they will come and take our place
and the circles of life will continue
toward their infinite centers...
The ticking of the clocks on the walls
will not stop because we depart,
the changing of the seasons will remain faithful.
Outside the window the blue birds will return each spring
to fledge their progeny from the trees
we planted with the children when they were young.
Perhaps they will build tree houses
for their offspring in the strong branches that grew from our efforts,
and tell them how they buried sticks of faith
in the cold clean earth with the help of their Grandparents aging hands
in the fall
when they were small.

The Spilling of Stars

After awhile
we learn to take love
into our own hands, don’t we?
Sooner or later we cease
foisting the responsibility for our fulfillment
onto another.
Having been fooled time and again
by the fickleness of lust,
the passing of passion, the fears of each others failures,
we return to the reliable and uncomplicated
solitary satisfaction; the knowing that we are forever really alone.
And that there are secrets that only our aloneness can hold.
Love is always,
and forever filled with complexity,
constantly changing gowns and masks
and demanding a transformation from us.
Love alternates between whisper and scream,
Come up higher .
And we release each other from the
impossible bondage of expectation.
What is as familiar or as safe as our own hand?
What else can contain the spilling of stars
from our personal galaxy...without risk?
Nothing quite like the haven of our own soft palm.

In Arms Still Warm

I dreamt your flesh
draped across mine, cell to cell,
Like grass on the undulating earth.
Tiny blades of lust
crept along the carpet
tickling the forgotten into wakefulness
and I could hear my own moaning;
a hunger as plaintive as an African infant’s plight,
deprived of sustenance for far too long,
shrinking and shriveling, starving and wasting.
But I dreamt your hands entering into my skin
removing the dark aloneness.
I awoke with a start
lying in arms
still warm.

Something Old or Something New

Was this sudden crush of pressure
something old or new;
this dread that descended on me
from the nucleus of contentment.
As unexpected as a rose in December,
The sudden seepage of fear’s tears
running down the cracks of yesterday.

Fear born under the lamplight of peace
started to climb the pole of reminiscence.
Ancient is that sting meted out with
a cold winds breath
its icy hands tight around the throat of today’s happiness.

Thorns against the torn flesh,
as tender as the first time
Something unexpected unearthed
this great wound of mine
searching, searching for a clue,
Is it something old or is it something new?

Midnight Fingers of December

I stand naked

against the midnight fingers of December.

They should be frigid,

but instead are uncharacteristically balmy,

practicing their spring song across my waiting flesh.

Like a keyboard aching to spill music, skin senses creation

and I emerge slightly out of tune.

leaving the indoor warmth of winter.

Letting the night touch the black and white of me,

the flat and sharp of me with its moonless creeping....

and something springs and something sings.

What is it about the pores and keys that just lie waiting

for the hand of creation to slip against a slender ivory thought;

where they birth the finger's seed....

slightly out of tune

but singing their practice song for Spring across my flesh.