that old tree, cut and fallen,
the sound of wings long absent.
the web is empty,
and even the wind doesnt reply.
the garden mourns its time of passing,
and the plow is left alone.
sometimes we wake up homeless,
hungry without needing to eat.
to find that we are orphaned,
by the very heart that bears our name!
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we are not bolts of lightning,
we are the work of chapters,the forging of steel.the spider’s web empty for a month of nights,the garden sowed again and again.trees cut and stacked in firewood lengths,babies born in cementaries,atop unmarked graves.maps lost, histories forgotten,dull knives sharpened again and again.footprints in sand,that the waves wash away.wise men following the star,generation to generation.brown hands picking…
three minutes past dying…
the cat and the dog sit quietlyby the grieving door.sunlight drives shadows to corners,as the sound of low voices.speak up, sister!he cannot hear!yet the damp place in the palm,maybe the hummingbird outside the window.a truck hurtles down the street,with frantic need.dont call the preacher…call the farmer, the carpenter,the garbage collector,the transient bum!past the point of…
in the end…
it’s what you give…that endures!
dont tell me
how many nails have you driven?how many cows have you milked?how many fields have you plowed?how many women have you loved?how many loves have you lost?how many sick childrenhave you sat up with?how many diapers have you changed?how many double shifts have you pulled?how many fights have you won or lost?how many times have you…
with your meth lab soul,
single wide trailer feet,prodigal, where will you go now?your mother’s tears,her cigarette burnt quilt…your daddy’s hand tools pawnedfor pills and diapers.pictures piled in a box,wrapped in American nightmare…you hold your baby close,staring at a blank screen.high school hero, college dropout,deserter, small time criminal…you can still smell the sunlight,cant see past the rain.the song of Americaplayed…
walking into death…
learning to let go!we spend our livesin front of the easel…and now the paint begins to dry.at best, our dyingis the culmination of,the fulfillment of destiny,perhaps…it finalizes the giving,leaving the perfume of identityhanging in the air.we make love on a bed of pine needles,small impressions on the ground.the earth turns, the tides return,the fires gone…