Little Voice

there are no great deeds
following my name
as black as crows
or white as angels wings
no trials of faith, or love

there is a piece of life,
short or long
I do not know,
through which I must travel
until my end

a tortoise with shell
a cell of fear
dreams abandoned
as too painful with promises
that will not come

dreams are words
scratched on brown paper bags
slipped through the cracks
birds that flutter unfledged
to the street below

washed by rain into
the gutters.

Hope

he sits
on the corner
waits patiently
intent on an ant
carrying dinner home.

someday
she will come
carry him home
lovingly,
as he remembers.

Morning Mail

morning brings yet
another poem,
his early risings
on electric paper
pushed under her
door screen.

it is achingly beautiful,
a memory, of love,
theirs perhaps
as they once were.
she reads it with coffee,
tears on the side.

a note reads,
"Maybe should not
have sent this now
if it causes you pain."
she loves the poet
but does not answer.

he would not perhaps,
could not, understand
pain softens to beauty
one small firethread
woven into a tapestry
of golden words.

Deciphering

if I write again,
words inscribed of nothingink

what will you know
after you have digested
these tidbits of black on paper?

how much wiser will you be
for having ingested
a part of me?

fifty minds
may imbibe each scratch and whorl
dissecting mood as message
thought sipped from their
orbed cup to soak away
the mystery of my mind

yet who can say they know me when I have gone?

lift my words from off the page
as ancient bones
from a mouldering grave
gently lay them upon a sheet
placing them just so,
just so, to construct a scholarly view
through milky eyes

my thoughts will be the dust
brushed aside in a search
for meaning.

Old Lovers

on days of warm rain
when leaves hang
with the weight
of water they bear

I sit
on the covered porch,
swing
curled into an exotic shawl
of paisley cinnabar silk, black fringe
and dream of old lovers

i

mornings bring
sweet young men
eager for the fruits
of love and lust
visits one by one
carrying bouquets
of memories wrapped
in crinkled tissue
of palest green

they sit beside me for a while
we chat comfortably remembering
the touch of hands
hot flushes rushing across bodies
held close in dark secretive places

back seats at drive-in shows
on sweaty nights
with the speaker blaring
heroine screams

in the woods by a fire
beach towels spread
on sunwarmed sand
wet bathing suits fumbled
lower

they quickly pass now
as fleeting love did then
along with youth and fragile dreams

ii

after noon, rain heavier,
wrapped in thought
soft smiles play a welcome
for the lovers of middle years
they sit crossed legged
lean back and murmur

confident, striving men
long afternoons over lunch
then a room
appointment book passion
studied moves rehearsed
on women, like unmentioned shadows
who peer over their shoulders

passing time names
almost forgotten
worn from memory
by years of life

iii

evening fog drifts
up the glistening front path
kisses my waiting cheek
with the lips of lovers to come
silver men wise, relaxed
waiting just beyond
the golden lamplight.

October Night

fox yips somewhere
giant orange balloonmoon
smiles, gliding over
old growth forest
trees write memories
on their fallen leaves.

No Forwarding Address

try to live on dreams
coloured comic life
pushed, as a leaf on a mud puddle

sleep to tie up tattered ends
or let them fray further
like a web unweaving
drops bits and pieces
frail silk disappears

curl into a soft and subtle world
that neither feeds the body
or saves the soul

Flat Line Feeling

float, float,

after a time ameoba-like
stretch forth, test the future
search its parameters
taste the present
ready to retract
always ready

somewhere in the gray recesses
memories of life subsist
but it is too hard, too cold,
to leave.

The Recipe

love and lust lie
intertwined
within
my hidden depths
lust alone does not
complete
love alone is not
replete
for my need
to be truly sated
love and lust
must be joyfully mated.

Alice, Where the Hell are You?

fall backwards
down the rabbit hole
watch light,
sound,
recede
floor rising soft cotton
candy
sticks to you
stinks of sweetness

pamper
words
fall down, brown
smell of sulphur
crawl through a door
shrink wrapped isolation

caterpillar hookahhype
blow it,
smoke rings
inside my head

cat smile
hung
in
a
tree

mad hatter poison
slips in the skin
work hard, die
crazy at a tea party
that never ends

Dirty Thirties

sittin is all life gives me to do now
line ups for day work longer and longer
hide in here far from the sun
make a nickle beer last 'til dark
some better than an empty room

used to work hard
money in my pocket jinglewalked home
muscles ached good and honest
she smiled me in at the door
supper hot, smelled like heaven

gone now no work, no doctor,
no medicine to save her
hope dragged out too thin
hardscrabble times chain
the soul of a poor man.

She Wonders

little girl
tucked away inside
the closet of flesh,
a grown up woman now,
peers out still afraid
of tires braked on gravel drives
doors slammed
voices loud, spilling anger
memories that only rise so far
feelings that her body makes
of unprotected openness

bad things
that have no name or face
but sensations, cringes, sick,
sick waves, run away
run away over and over in her head

she wonders,
that little one
at other father's hugs and kisses
they are different
she is not sure how,
not sure why
but wonders how that love can be
safe?

Saturday Afternoon

windows wide
embrace the first warmth
slip sliding into June's summer

scent of first mown grass
meanders onto my porch
surrounds the swing
teases attention from ponderous
words on breeze fluttered pages
which drop aside in reverie

sound of trowel
cutting into soft black loam
my dream eyes see him
bent over the garden
shirt flung onto the lawn
like last autumn's leaves

his skin will smell like lemon balm
streaked yellow
by the pollen of early lilies
a humming sound of bees and
his voice gently permeates
the silence of spring gone south

as the day lengthens
into early dusk
he will proudly survey his Eden
then reach for me
all sun warmed and brown
hands full of flowers
kisses tasting of mint and thyme.

Sermon

spikes through his hands
I am nine, burning with
devotion, belief

looking at my hands
so small, thin, pale
spikes are very big

how much does it hurt
I wonder, awed by the pain
circulating round me, too much

spikes through his feet
stare at my toes
wrapped in new sunday leather

not brave enough, I decide
I will go to hell
because I am afraid of his pain