ALL I ASK
Play me for a little while --
become familiar with my melody
before you design
to rewrite my music.
Oftentimes,
all that is needed
is a line of harmony
or an additional measure
for enhancement.
Listen to my song
with all of your senses
and you may find
the original score
as beautiful as Creation.
The Candlelight Poetry Journal, January 1998
COMING OVER THE BRIDGE
Tops of tall buildings
sliced into the sunrise,
sharp and shining towers
in a golden glow.
But there in the shadows
where the sun could not reach,
there in the dirt
that belied clean perfection,
an old woman sat
with her life
by her side.
Prolific Writer's Journal, Fall 1994
MEMORY
do you remember last night?
as evening,
a piece of worn cloth,
was pulled up over our heads
and shut out most
of the star light?
do you remember our whispered promises
and wet hot breath
and the prayers we murmured
that dawn
would never come?
Poetry Motel, Spring 1995
JAZZ CURRENTS
smoky sax
deep throatiness
singin' blackness
sighin' blue
preachin' till dawn
more than my heart
more than my mind
notes pull from within the well
a soft wail out of the depths
from beyond where I can see
of nights gone past
and days not born
a thirsty cry I never knew
overflows, spills out
come back
and find me
let me live
Potpourri, Volume 9, Number 4
FLOWERS BEFORE AN OPEN WINDOW
All is silent
except for the tick of the clock
and the beat of my heart.
The lilies in the vase are dying.
Dry petals and stamens make
small moving shadows
in the sunlight
as a slight breeze drops them to
the tabletop.
They fall as loudly
as my heart beats,
their rhythm as uneven
as my tears.
Potpourri, Vol, 7, No. 2, 1995
BACKYARD ROSES
Summer roses
die into September.
Their heady fragrance
suffocates in the chill
of morning frost.
Each sunset
pulls them deeper
with its fist,
crimson petals
bleed long into the night.
Prolific Writers Journal, Fall 1994
LIFESPANS WITHIN US
You
grew older
when I wasn't looking.
I don't know if
my mortality
frightens me,
or if I am afraid
because I now recognize
countable years
within you?
I remember . . .
I remember . . .
Images of you yesterday
are vivid and clear.
When did you change?
When did you
grow older?
Stand Alone, Vol. 2, No. 7, August 1998
JOURNEY WITH MS
(Multiple Sclerosis)
I trip
down a corridor darkly
wall-walking the length
and breadth and height
my fingers reach
(when feeling out of sight)
afraid for tomorrow
but searching for
the rest of my life
I may stumble
I may fall
but never will I stop
Mirage Literary & Arts Magazine, 2000
HE LOVED TRAINS
I can now only remember
bits and pieces of his face
as if a jigsaw puzzle
had been turned upside down
and there! on the floor
is his crooked-tooth smile,
a pair of blue eyes with pale lashes,
a thatch of hair
the color of blonde strawberries . . . .
It's difficult, though,
to put the puzzle back together,
as if Time and my memory
conspire to fade
the only mental portrait of my brother
that I have.
I could pull out
any one of a hundred photos,
but it seems that Kodak is cheating
not to have mementoed
the power of his stance,
the strength of arms that held love,
his splay-footed walk . . . .
But worse,
the sound of his voice
and his laugh,
these are growing still.
They are almost
as quiet as ashes scattered
along railroad tracks
in Virginia.
Mirage Literary & Arts Magazine, 2000
