Cut In

Without you,
A new year feels as sharp
 and wounding as the blade
of a new knife.

 If I could,
 I would let you cut in,
 So you can finish
 this dance with life.

Humble Requests

Edvard Munch "The Girl in the Window" (detail) 1893




She tip-toes toward
the parted curtains,
where this celestial lamp
has come to meet
and unfold her hands,
to carry her humble requests
to a magical place
of mercy and rest.

She does not plead for more
or weep over less;
Only asks to protect
the dreaming souls
who've loved her long
and loved her best;

To wrap the present of this perfect night
in cotton sheets tucked in tight--
with unraveled hair ribbons,
 and slow stretching streams
of a sleepy midnight
 yawning moonbeams.

She hears nothing but
the nodding branches
of each tree's proud approval.

Her lips utter not a single
sung or whispered word;
but a protective breeze
traveling along the glow of her skin
lets her steady pulse know:

That her heart has been answered;
That she has been heard .


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Girl On The Moon

I am the girl on the moon--
a girl who only knows
the curious, peeking,
quiet light of the stars;
The one who occasionally
has long distance chats with mars.

I am the girl on the moon,
fully embracing the harvest--
as gravity moves further,
and further
from my floating thoughts.

I am the girl in the sky
watching the web
of dark, immortal space
catch earthly questions,
as they blink by
like the traffic of evening  fireflies.

I am the one
wondering if there
is an answer for every
pair of empty hands.

I am the echo
in the cave of a hollow heart,
when endings and beginnings
rehearse their passion
for a movie kiss.

I am just a girl
on the moon.
And love is just a boy
on a drifting cloud
that once passed through me.

I am the girl traveling in circles
with a glow so far behind her--
sadly accepting
no bright new time will ever find her.

A Cousin of A Prayer

Sometimes I have to put her words down
because they feel like something
 I've been holding all my life

Not as easy as the summer beach
Not as tired as an overcast day
but she offers flight over pain
Sand and slow rain


the kind that will always show up later
in pockets, and shoes

frozen,
in the forgotten crevices of winter blues

the kind that will walk in without wiping its feet
and never apologize for leaving traces
of where it has been or what it knows

The kind that only a garden grows

Not gospel
But a cousin of a prayer
somewhere between
 heavy breath and light air

She destroys all indoor sources of time
forces me to rely on the sky
to tell me where my shadow should be

I forget lessons I've read,
the time I wake,
or went to bed.
Too often a dying memory
 makes a widow out of me

But I never forget a feeling
Emotions tend to pile themselves on top of me

And she's the only thing
that could ever set me free

If you see her around,
Pay attention.

Her name is Poetry.

To The Depths of Whatever I Am

I can't remember
the first time I was called a poet
or by whom;
Though I do recall
something within me sank
to the depths of whatever I am

That's an intense responsibility,
you know...
Do I even have a choice in this matter?
Or is this like a given name,
stamped on my birth certificate?
Did I check the box on my driver's license:
"Will donate organs, blood,
observations of life and the human spirit"

If this was given: Why me?!
If this was chosen: Was I drunk?!

We won't even discuss
whether or not I must
or must not be great--
Or if I can just keep it simple
on the surface,
and rhyme about the food I ate;


All that, and my pride aside--
It doesn't even matter.
Someone pushed
a roller coaster ride
Straight through my chest
and my heart is alone,
screaming in the front seat--
strapped down
by a lifetime of words

First words
Last Words
Words soaked in late evening summer sheets
Words stuck in traffic
Words naming babies
Words Coming Home
Kind words, apologizing
for the wrong that other words have done.
Words needing someone.

Some frogs complain about being green
So I shoved some black and blue pens
in a bindle,
and headed out to trade them,
with hopes that I can leap over this crazy scene

Do you know how many poems
a poet can give birth to?
And some don't even grow up to fit their name.
I never got my body back
after that first stanza.
My head feels like a thesaurus's bloated twin.
And I'm poet-tired
from all these early lyric cries
and midnight feedings.

Sleep doesn't call me anymore--
won't even spend the night on a weekend,
or admit that we had something once.

This is rarely a day at the beach
But I'm forever shaking off the sand,
And even if I don't leave my pages
out in the sun--
aging lines appear,
and rhymes form
like freckles everywhere.

Staring at this mirror,
through young, but weary eyes--
I can only surmise,
that one day,
my hands will cramp
and not recover,
finger tips still stained,
prints leaving evidence of passion,
 and the tumult of a mind gone mad;



And there is very little doubt,
that on their way out
those final words
will read:
Oh, God! Why me?

But there is fire in fear;
A bright secret
slips through parting clouds,
and a voice
cowering beneath a soft sheet of breath,
whispers...
"Thank You!"




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Winter Boots

Closed Eyes

Stole the dawn's colors
from my skies.

And if that's the end,

I see what you see--

Darkness, and trouble.
Fearing a sober mind.
Intoxication only made it double.


So much loss
Yet there is so much within me


My pen glides along,
tracing over hills of grief.
On my head,

rests one autumn leaf--
a snowflake falls beside it
to threaten its veins.
The leaf hardens.
A crisp truth.
No life remains...


Hollow boots,
fading
in this bastard of a blizzard;
No feet to fill them.
 No burning sun to will them--
Only stale, heavy air
to forever still them.


So I watch promises
break through the hourglass,
and stare at all the goodbyes
 my bare feet long to pass...


While whirling shadows cry

your empty winter boots
 kill the summer grass.



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Shaking Hands With Poets

She sings songs with her eyes closed
her voice let's you know
whether their blue or gold
Her words change color all the time

She's spent the better part of her life
shaking hands with poets
with a long hope
that maybe there's a line on a palm,
 that'll remind her of who she is
She doesn't know for sure,
Not anymore.

There's no calendar
with days
marked with okays
to take out the crazy;
So it stays.

Did I mention she'll take a rhyme
like a dime
on a floor?
even when her heart isn't poor;

But sometimes she's the one to leave one
under cushions,
or rolled beneath a coin machine
Spinning on the dirt,
and places where bending may hurt;
Where schedules pull her away
and time is too busy
 to bother to flirt

In her room
there's a closet full
of disorganized letters--
On cold days
she pulls them out
and wears them all at once
like layers of sweaters

Most of her thoughts
are waiting behind
a railroad sign
near an old abandoned train
she wonders
if she leaves to meet them
will she go completely insane?

Soul Mates

Pardon me
for noticing,
but the loneliness in your words
closely resembles mine

I couldn't help but wonder
 if we are soul mates.

And if we put our words
in the same room
and stirred them together
would they make love?