Night and Day

But Not Tonight

we sit in the black hours of night
crawling off the sofa’s edge
onto all fours, paws poisoned

with words, with past pain
with anything sharp enough
to cut a deep hole

where we can bury our suffering
in the graves of each other's wounds
and seal them with ensuing silence

who will strike first?
i envisioned a beast grunting
an ancient guttural howl of hunger

ready to pounce on its prey
and devour the flesh of differences
suppressing suffering, sustaining the self

but we speak and listen
and ask powerful questions
and respect that evolution

is more than a large brain
and walking erect
that without communication

we are destined to die
denying our mosaic existence
colored by curiosity

*****

A Walk to Remember

She catches the drizzle with her tongue, and tastes water for the first time. Her eyes are glass cups, brimming with rain and tears against the cold. She holds a round, liquid view of her mother nestled in a baby blue blanket and feathered white pillows.

I wonder if she will dream of her first walk in the rain the way I will commit this painting to memory. A mother with her baby girl, euphoric on clean air, sanctified with the holy water of Earth as rain and tears mix for perfect purification.

Love's Recovery

 

Thawing from our grief, we water the seedling with fresh tears.

A new baby, a new love, the promise of Spring, and love’s recovery.

Tales from Motherhood

When Two Become Three

they say that nothing lasts forever
that she’s past her prime
a brown eyed- beauty photograph
frozen in her time

she cries for his attention
regressing to compete
against their baby girl
denying her defeat

jealousy, an ugly growth
green fungus on this tree
discoloring this photograph
when two become three

*****

The Art of Making Love After Our First Child

I make love to you as if I were blind
Tracing your mountains and valleys with brush stroked precision
Absorbing your landscape with my fingertips
Though I have seen you before

After I’ve put the colors and canvas away
I peek through sleepy eyes as part of you
Is buried in the shadows of sheets
And I know, I will never paint this to perfection

But to some mottled vision of us
My heart sees at the time

Mother

Mother’s milk dried up after three weeks
and left a formula of salt water
I could not drink from her eyes
glazed over by a winter frost
the look of someone lost

Mother awakes with my hunger cries
at the first blush of morning
I drink an artificial formula
mixed with the sunrise
and the light in her eyes

Mother leaves to write or sing
or meditate in her own thoughts
to find herself again
she travels with the wind
and tells me where she’s been

Mother’s love
a peculiar dress
a patterned choice
I accept

Earth Eyes

 

introspection and imperfection
you absorb them both
with your earth eyes
and reflect them with acceptance


 

The Funeral

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live."
-Dorothy Thompson


The wailing wind mourns
Dead leaves garland your grave
Black breath rises
As a woman is saved

You predicted my future
With ominous uncertainty
Murdering the moment
My worst enemy

Your death is my life
O, atheist of Me
One petrified spirit
Is finally free

Flying

Two birds encounter a winter storm.

One violently beats her wings against the wind in bleeding defiance. Depressed by the rain and her own tears, she plummets to a hard death. Determined to be entertained, the second bird rides the roller-coaster wind in high spirits, as the rain flows down her wings in refreshing rivulets.

The second bird knows something the first bird failed to learn. Successful flight is entirely dependent on wing selection.