because the story must be told
how do you teach poetry
shall you instruct
how to have a soul
in chairs, facing front
apple on the table
will you tell me how to feel
in alphabetical order
you would do well
to hold class
at the edge of the volcano
the center of the storm
Like a cedar crypt
they lie in bags, All
their childhoods
wrapp’t amongst lavender
and dust, and
the scent of every Christmas
Each disappointment
sanitized
with the colors of quilts
The squares of each dress
every drape
all our lives
again
with the birds
he says
well
they are still talking
and it is magic
every time
say what you will
about Pop-Tarts
but I never saw one
burn down a building
I never
saw a Twinkie
crash a car
or give me the finger
on my birthday
do not ask me
to turn down the music
or dim the sun
and its heat
your cold
breath is
turning to fog
before me
I got behind
and catching up
is something like
grape stomping
in a swamp
getting so stuck in the
sweet muck
and no one sees it
so does it really happen
the wineclaydirt slurry
bogged. left. carnival of mud.
first cuppa
with the rising sun
joyous and bright
cup two for discourage-
ment and woe
cup three for I Love Lucy
some laughs
fourth cuppa
to mute out the noise
bring on the joys
of so much good taste
and hot, steamy
give-without-taking
kind of cuppa
He closed like a door
not slammed
the way we hear a warning shot
before the storm
but shut meticulously
carefully
to evoke no more than a soft click
easily missed
It was always the silence that did me in.
I put up with every violation
in a way that no one should
but I never stopped living
until the silence got me
spring’s trumpets
are quiet
not the blasting
of July
nor the glittering
of December snow
spring
you marvelous lover
you serenade
well into the night
birds trains wind
sudden cold snap
an unexpected breeze
like when he left
only to turn around
to touch my face again
Monday
you have been called
blue
but I wave my wand
and call you gold
leaving the blues
in the can behind me
