This Same Spot

Keep poets out

of the planted beds.

There is something wrong and

it is not just inside the head.

Another confession in which the

guilt remains a secret still.

And that dream with movement

through the physical remains.

Finding a gigantic infant weeping inside

a small box and loneliness and waking-

up screaming on the inside trying to forget

of course and this was just two days ago.

That same day it was an identical situation,

static, paralyzed in that position. Now it will

be known but it won’t be for the better,

and it doesn’t matter if it matters.

Wishful Thinking

the scent of

honeysuckles

 

a fleeting glimpse

into a time in

youth when purity

came in small doses

 

maybe this reminder will be

somewhat sufficient to guide me

 

back to innocence

For Mother

Forgive me, if only I’d emulate

The grace that you have carried in your heart.

Abide with me, although you emanate

A modesty and humbleness, apart

I’ve been from Him and you, it’s been too long.

I have tried, and yet I fail to love

At times. The darkness in my mind is wrong.

You know there is some goodness in your dove;

Your child, the mustard seed, small but growing.

The stubborn tree, a nuisance through and through.

Yet you have taught me all about sowing,

To cut the weeds and branches gone askew.

And so I wish to let you know I’ve grown,

Because of you I’ll never be alone.

Not Yet

There is objectivity.

I don’t deserve

forgiveness for my…

But I ask anyway.

The end is near.

 

There is an ambiguous

pain in my

torso, throughout,

changing fluidly.

And I’ve changed,

perhaps not as fluidly,

but perspective is

fluid.

 

If this is

the end,

so be it.

 

This is no end.

Still Floating

lost affinity

absence of astronomy

finding a way through the vacant sea

 

drifting along without

a sail

let alone a motor

 

self-exile sentencing automatic

wandering to where

whatever a home is