"Gently" (a poem for mama)

Gently touch her, gently care,
For the day may come — swiftly when
That endless cruel knocking
on doors bolted from the inside
Dies down and turns into
gray silence.

She, irksome as it is,
goes round and round in circles
Looking for the missing pair
She wears the other one, anyway,
And sits down in grief.

She says, “I want to go home.
Let me go home.”
“Mama, you are home,” you answer.
Vexation rears its ugly head
And you force each horn,
one at a time, to recede:
To vanish from sight.

Then gaining composure you say:
“Mama, let’s pray.”
God hears, and you are healed. Set free.
Instantly.
Of the agony of bearing about
in your own body
The weight of selfishness
And sin
And sheer ignorance of
what it feels like
To have Time snatch away Memory
From you and those you love

The sheer helplessness of this
bent, white creature
With veined hands and bony feet
Reminds you of your own
Utter helplessness.
Mortality.

Poems for Lazy Afternoons

S H O W O F F

i hear you

piercing the silent

clinking of champagne

glasses

with the laughter of a

thousand waterfalls

for my benefit.

**********************************************************************

WHO I AM

who am I?

I am not a wife.

for if the grave calls

and my love follows

then I shall cease to be.

I am not a mother.

for if the ground breaks open

and swallows both my infants whole

God forbid—

then I shall cease to be.

I am neither poet nor writer

for if the tide of thought, word,

feeling

ebbs,

and the well of inspired speech

dries up

then I shall cease to be.

who I am:

I am but one who follows

Life, Light, Truth.

I am but one who walks

the dusty, well-worn path

left by a good and kind

Teacher.

I am a bamboo reed

bending in the wind.

I am a calf

nursing at her mother’s nipples.

I am a pencil

drawing lines on a page.

I am a cluster of rhododendrons

nourished by the canopy.

I am a badger

finding shelter in the rocks.

who am I?

I am but one who follows

Life, wherever He leads.

*****************************************************************************

WEE HOURS

Listless

Ears ringing

Eyes straining

In the dark

To see

meanings

Clanging noise

Keeps mind alert

Heart quieted by words

From an old manuscript

For life.

A writer Thinks

Feels

Lives

In a self-made

Closet

He wonders

What lies dusty

On bookshelves

In Cupboards

Key chains

Dried leaves

Soiled sheets

Bedsores

Furuncles

Dead ants

Beating hearts

And seeks to find

Letters

syllables

Sounds

to paint

Visions

Images

Of life.