It comes
It comes
Morning’s Reflection
FEAR: that invention that keeps us good
Believing in that house at
The end of a road
Paved with distraction
No signs posted for talent or genius nor
turnoffs for iron-hard reality – adulthood
That cul-de-sac of desire
Fear-driven success
The locking mechanism
Brings dispatches
From the big house –
The brain;
That Swiss Army Knife of survival
In the Kitchen of Memory
Theirs are the young faces brightened
By the garish blue-light of their toys
They look up to cast wary, beleaguered eyes at us
“What do we know?”
We have left the living rooms to them for their disposal
Seated on comfortable sofas and chairs – our gifts for their retreat
We huddle in kitchens preparing healthy meals
For children who are no longer
And will have nothing to eat
As they rewrite their lives in 140 characters or less
Living on likes and bytes
No thought given to the time-capsule in the attic
The one that holds the baby clothes and tangible
Photographs of all their ‘firsts.’
And the trunk jammed packed with sheet
Music for instruments
They’ve forgotten how to play
Maybe they’ll want to explore one day
Like they used to
Sneak into the attic and see the Polaroids –
The young, beautiful couple beaming at their baby
“Who are they?”
They are the originators of your story
The authors who’ve shared the same pen
Picking up when one partner drifts off
Crawling away to heal the cuts
To hearts now cowering in kitchens
Licking the sweet spoons of memory
A Country For No Child
There is a country rich in diamonds,
Oil and foreign sports cars
I know this – having read it in
The Times
This is a country in which one child
In six will die before the age of five
Says The Times’ Kristof
But I live in a country that cares
About children – Some of us
Care so much we call authorities
On parents whose children walk
Home from the park – alone
Keeping our children absurdly safe
Ignoring the Angolan mother holding
The “twig limbs,” swollen belly, wizened face
Of the near carcass that is her child
She’s waiting for care from the few who do
Those people who come from far off places to nurse and
Heal everyone’s children
Those people who know that diamonds
Are friend to no one
The people who recognize
The diamond’s sparkle
Being stolen everyday
From the eyes of babies
Leaving in its place a
Haunted spectacle, skeletal frame
Held together in wrinkled brown
Wrappings of skin
THE LIFE LIMITED
Not the express
The one gladly missed
Dawdling on life’s platform
Counting cars
Windows flashing light
Quick, dark faces inert
Blank stare ahead
Glimpsing the gold
Coins of paradise
Gone too soon
We, unhurried & unnoticed
Age and wisdom
In separate cars
On that same track
Tearing through
A landscape of
Scattered grace
The Beloved Monster
Walking against the wind
Off the lake slows my pace
I consider the remnants of
The coldest February on record
The receding snow
Pulling back from last night’s rain
Leaving molded columns of
Autumn’s leaves
Along the road
Heaped dirty and waiting huge
Ice & snow mounds long since
Spent of fun and wonder that
Came new last December
March is here with its uneven
Message: promises of what might be
The patches of green
Slicing white winter
Mocking romantic winter havens
Warmth upended with
The old wooden mailbox
After the passing of
The beloved monster
Patron saint of the winter road:
The snowplow
KITE SEASON
Happiness builds a fast fire
Underfoot the running child
In fields wild with flowers
Laughing, some unknown joy,
That life will be good
Happiness forces arms open
New experience
Embracing daring
Nothing but youth
Before receding to the corners
Beaten back by the collected ticks
A clock and a heart weary
Holding happiness at bay
Then comes
The thumping hush
That muscle upon which
Nothing is lost
Rolling and dipping
Tethered calmly against
Winds of age & change:
Happiness,
Flying its own kite
