Thursday, December 23, 2010


Feather duster and 
dust bunnies scurry
with all the holiday rush
for all to be prepared,

Cobwebs long ignored
finally receiving their due.
All done the way she instructed
so long ago.

And I poke around my own things,
like a left behind relative
rediscovering a richness
I didn't know existed.

Sorry for the neglect
each piece lifted,
dusted and carefully

Words revisited
resurrecting memories,
people, places,
some not even my own.

What is it 
with this longing for
what was,
what was not?
All that could be
and never was?

Fingering of scars,
flashes of silver 
that seem to 
settle upon me
at inopportune times

my pen to rise
and document it all
or at least come up
with a title 
for distillation later....

Yes, making art is way more compelling
than cleaning.

Friday, December 17, 2010

She sings

She sings
my struggle
she sings
my soul my song
how does she know?

We are both
we are
hu man
we are
wo man

we are one

Reader of Hearts

He said I should write more
that boy across the sea
I fear he wants to see
inside of me.

He thinks he 
can decipher my cipher
divinate the truth from strings of words
coupled here, scattered there.

I'm flattered he would even bother to inquire
touched by his interest and care
about what he might find 

But, his curiosity raises my panic
ever so slightly
gallop of heartbeats
flash across the screen
what will he read in my electricity

For this is his craft, his science, his art
seeing meaningful patterns where others 
see only strange lines and squiggles

I love that he still
is willing to listen and search
after so many years
seeking, leaning, learning,
looking for meaning
among all of our scribbles and phrases,
micro-expressions and grimaces.

He, the reader of hearts.
You know who you are.