Chosen

Let me be frank
as I punctuate
the ways we choose sides

The games of children
hosey and chisel the hope
from even the brightest spirits

I  am lost.
The last to be remembered.
The last to be asked
about my own life.

I ask someone
to take my hand
in a holy circle
and lead me
to the other side.

Let me be chosen
for something
that means anything
to God.

Endless Winter

The wattle of too much pride
hangs from the wizened experiences
of the winter that wouldn't end.

Even as the warmth and light
wake me into a pinkish flush,
it does no good to try and convince
the mind to let well enough alone
and rest.

I cough into the cave of disbelief
and sigh, exhausted
from the repetition of my mistakes.

Lungs wheeze and contract
with breath that must struggle
and blow like a wind
across the parched prairie
of day after day
of denial.

Lie Like a Fox

I wither
in the heat of this sun,
bound like a poor slave
and unable to steer my way
onto a peaceful path
where cool shadows of ferns
and flowers whisper relief.

The lobe of my ear waits
patiently for patient truth to guide me
toward the light of home.

I am listening for the joy of birds
but there is no rest in the night
for the fox has stirred all the branches
with his rough and hungry mind.

I Love My Children

Healthy
Whole
Kind
Patient
Funny
Creative
Smart
Intelligent
Peaceful
Thoughtful
Strong
Beautiful
Handsome
Focused
Determined
Wise
Sensitive
Attentive
Curious
Stubborn
Hungry
Thirsty
Angry
Sad
Lazy
Sleepy
Flexible
Entertaining
Loving
Mine

Outside the Simplicity of Skin

What do I know of the journey
dreary as I meander
on a damp and slithering trail?

By the lamp that watches the slight
variations of air as I exhale,
you might think that the breath
was something to flop past
and trounce before it gets control.

That is not necessarily the case
and we can, instead, watch summer bugs
with hard shells and wings
know the way,
the slime and abandoned places to avoid
just long enough to retreat
and make a new life in the simplicity
and solitude

outside of skin.

The Damage is Done

Sharpen the blade,
an old fashioned strop will do nicely,
and sulk away from the smirk
carried in the dream
where someone always beats me
to the finish.

My mood droops again
and I am caught wishing
these swings were something
to cut away swiftly--
like the removal of bandages
that must be changed
so that healing might
be apparent.

Walk,
or run,
near that glistening edge.
My mother was right.
The damage is done
even when you don't mean
to fall.

The Way Your Skin Moves

In another life, maybe your next life
or your last life . . .
Notice the way the slack in your skin moves
and pledge to make things stronger,
tighter so that your children and other strangers
have no need to stare, cocking their heads
and squinting their eyes to see if they might crop
that part of their view.

You might promise anything to keep the well worn
paths free of rubbish and instead plant flowers
and leafy greens and vines that tangle themselves up
in the sweetness of cucumbers and melons
you had no idea
would grow
in this climate.