a past after future

We, an Eiffel Tower built of brick
stacked high enough to touch
what dreams may not
when sky, again, knows snow
and the crow pulls apart
our nest- a past repeating future.

We, breathing smoke of burning wood
and bills,
and memories, receipts,
our saving of papers, of names,
or things hidden away in books
finally found for a
future repeating past.

I keep asking the dream you
the same angry, desperate question-
my answer a stillness–
a smile and tears,
a quiet rage and me walking, running in mind,
back to a time before past after future.

thirst

the well went dry
when enough wasn’t enough.
we pulled the pails,
laboring into night
for just a drip.

pyromania

fires warm
mice nesting in
burning walls

Fall Haiku

Coyotes sing tonight
songs of trees, crisp falling leaves
sounds of your return

Clue

O steeple – my heart,
my body – the fog,
a door in the road,
a future of loose change,
a bag of metaphors – of truth
to know if it is you.

In Dreams

I dreamed
a black widow riding
on an elephant’s back, 
that you were really not dead.

Dropped a kangaroo 
In exchange for a bruise:
proof and trail of remains.

Truth, like potential or zen, is
until subjective perception 
creates the lose or win. 

The choice of dream dynamic,
attempts to play out the inning,
how you hang broken clocks 
for another thing to fix in time.

The weaver, slow,
sees not in fragments 
nor an end to her thread.

the Trouble with Words

Today is another day
where everything I say hurts.
I keep talking.

The Buddhists say I’m brave,
The Christians pray.
I may be both.

For two days, an eagle perches by my door,
screeching Courage and Honor, Valor-
how I squash Life and bow before it.

“God is not of me,
I am of God.”

I was told once by a lady in the dark
how I have to teach kids respect, to punish them.
And, I thought how do I teach but to show it.

I must be kind, be careful now.
Words can not become me.
Words, they do not know me.

When Baby

When baby cries
You don’t scream, “Stop!”
You run to it, rocking,
hugging it close to your breast
to calm it with love and search for
its want and need.

Baby grows into child.
Child still cries, and you
hold that child close, rocking,
to listen to its want and need.

Child grows into teen.
Teen still cries, and you
say, “Suck it up!” Or,
send it to its room to cry alone,
no longer to listen to its
want and need.

Teen grows into adult,
and adults still cry.
We try to make them stop
by distraction or jokes
or aggravated responses
like, “Grow up!” Or,
“Stop acting like a baby!”
Or, “Come on, get thick skin!”
We nullify them with pity awws,
I’m sorrys, and it’s okays.

But crying is more than a problem
or a weakness. It’s still a primal
sign of want and need.
We cry when we bleed.
We cry to see.
We cry, sometimes, just to be
when baby, child, teen,
and when adults still cry
It’s okay to let them.

It’s okay to hug them close
and, rocking, grieve.

Fertile

The plants tell me I’m rain,
to wash away pain in the soul.
I fertilize its soil so
flowers of smiles can grow. 
I hold his head in my palms, 
and rake him like
gardeners rake zen:
in that silent place of soft 
darkness between star-songs
and the waking of trees I love him
like lavender loves bees, 
wildly primal, in humility 
we bow, your honor, we ask 
for nothing but a small plot 
to plant our seed.

The Illusion

We try our whole lives to be you
You are everything
Everything is you
The Illusion is the truth
subtle difference
between my voice and yours
though my voice is yours
and my voice is my own
You are everything
The Illusion is you
You are the illusion
Ages prove,
We try our whole lives to show the
real you to everyone else.
We fail.
Yet you are us
if that is what we choose
And if we choose the illusion
We still choose you

There is no damnation.
There is only you
after us.
That is the illusion,
Because you are everything
And everything is Us.