The Day You Were Born

On the day you were born
nothing ordinary happened.

Even while the moon
turned to golden blood

and the horizon
was only a flimsy diversion
to all the pain of every birth,

I pleaded with the heavens
to release me from the grip
love held on my tired womb.

The residue of God
could not be washed away
even in the dark waters
of knowing everything
would eventually end.

This ticking clock of my body
sounded and the bells rang out
to announce your arrival
on a path we have all walked.

We didn't know it then,
but it was the birds who knew your name
before you arrived with the feathers of angels
imprinted on your feet.

It was the birds who sang loudest of all
pointing at the red heart fluttering in your chest
like it was the first day of spring
in the first garden every dreamed.

Drifting

The mind splinters again
thinking of all that I've done alone
and what is left undone.

I am swamped by the cluttered clouds
gathering in the west
and I lurch around in the churning waters
of an unknown overwhelming grief.

Here I am
scudding along before the storm
like a child trying to outrun the beast
in a bad dream.

I swash my morose mouth with soap
frowning while I wait
in another silent life preserver.

After Life

This body is unfurling and fruitful
as a day in July,
nectar flowing from my fingers,
my skin brushes against the creamy air
and heat of the day.

I could chirp as I migrate into cells
to rescue the part of me that almost died
after I lost my way in the explosion of sorrows.
The stranger held hostage while organs of joy shut down.

In deepest grief, I see the antennae of a butterfly
close as each blue feather of color
flakes away from the tiny wires
so she can fly.

I hold back a sneeze
looking at the sun.
The breath escapes.

Laughter is nearly inevitable
in this jungle of summer.
If my mouth opens,
who knows what songs
I might learn to sing.

It is Always Somebody's Birthday

Spring celebrated this week.
Another tease with fifty on the thermometer Tuesday,
only to get windy and colder again on Wednesday.

Mother Nature didn't mean to be this grandiose in her belly.
It's just hard to wait for daffodils to be born
when the snow scrambles, seemingly invincible,
and we all shudder against the another blizzard.

Nonetheless, on days like today,
when the sap is running like a river of joy
and the sun shines on the gluttony of maples
in the icy deep of March,
we step up boldly with a steaming mug of love
and sing "Happy Birthday" at the top of our lungs.

We give a toast to new life and ask the black bandit of time
to leave all our treasure alone for the moment
while we rock our precious children awake with gratitude
for the story of another day.

He Fell

He fell.
The leg crumpled
under the body
and he fell
hard onto the bathroom tile.

Thudding and crying out,
he fell and grips the fear.
The crash draws me into the dragging pain.

He fell.
The leg crumpled
under the body
and he fell
hard.

Birthday Poem #52

It happens every year, like clockwork.

Time sneaks up on me in the ritual
dedicated to the promotion of my continued story
and laughs at the opulence of this joy.

My feet walk on this sacred ground
with gratitude and wonder.

I have never been so happy
to devour this sweetness
like a child hungry for more.

Lopsided Love

The parade of winter patrolling near the edges of this thaw
is sweaty under layers that shutter and shiver like a flu.

I want to trust the bounty of this unexpected warmth,
but spring is lopsided as a hungry salesman
aiming for the green of new cash.

This February pastiche
tastes funny. Cotton candy that melts
on the tongue and then is bitter.

If March is true,
I will be loyal and endure without fail,
I will be the cautious lover and not won over
until the honor of my trust is proven.