The Children of Manchester (poem)



Gather, Children
the ghosts of years long passed have come to bear witness
to the tragedy in Manchester
those who’ve been struck from the earth when hate and fear and anger took them
in war, and famine, and with fear’s iron hand
now stand side by side in a silent Reveille

Gather, Children
and bear witness to the pale faced human wraiths whom
by the millions are flooding the streets of your fair city
who’ve risen from the graveyards of history
who stare forward with eyes filled with sympathy, empathy, and compassion
for those who yet live
and gather unto themselves those who do not

Gather, Children
and let your eyes bear witness to what happens
when dangerously simple and prejudiced filled minds try to address the worlds ills
the results of which are drawn out to their terrible conclusion
this great example of what hate, fear, and confusion
wrought forth
when it seeps out of the cracks in our heart’s
shadowed places

Gather, Children
and turn the tide of inevitability
hold back the swift hand of death – this spectre and respecter of none
Regardless of rank, and station, and life long ambition
Who comes for us all – in the form of a friend
or in the shape of our enemy

Gather, Children
be ye young, middle aged, or with more days behind you than before you
and cast your heart, and your tears, and your fears, and your faith, and your eyes downward
and take a long hard look at what hate and malice, and malcontent, and fear, and retribution does when it infests the soul of a person
who then causes the innocent to lay silent at your feet
What a tragedy, What a waste

Gather, Children
and see when the spirits of the other side of mankind’s legacy
walk your future back down those narrow streets
only to disappear with the breaking of the sun of a new day
and while you mourn for those who are gone from this earth
Remember to weep for those who yet remain


Authors note: Pope Francis was quoted as saying, “You pray for the hungry, then you feed them, that’s how prayer works.” Manchester, my prayers, and grief, and hope, and love are with you just as they once belonged to France after the mindless terror in the Bataclan, as they were with those in Orlando at the disco.

I don’t know what that equivalent of Francis’ words are, here. But whatever it is, however it is, it has to be better than what we’ve been doing.

That place on the edge of forever (poem)


God if I could live next to the ocean, and the woods, if I could hear the roar of the waves and the howl of the wind, if I could stand on a rock that jutted out into the sea, and feel the spray on my face, then I would be happy.

If I could stretch my body like a sail and take the buffeting and bruising of the wind. If I could have the years that have been made to hang on my face blasted away with fine grains of sand, where my checks tightened in the salty air, and my blue eyes reflected the sea. And once again I was made young. I would be happy.

A part of my soul craves the wild abandon at the edge of the world. The place where thunderstorms bring ragged raging waves higher and higher and slap them down  like a gambler’s empty shot glass is slammed against some forgotten bar in the old west.

And at night I would be so worn out from the day, that I would fall fast asleep in a bed so soft in dreams so deep I could reach Atlantis and walk among the ruins and carry the lost souls trapped in ruins of sunken ships to heaven.

God, I would be so happy at that place at the edge of forever.

Tell me such a place exists and take me my hand and lead me there.

Let me (Poem)

diego-hernandez-222506.jpgLet me hold myself still
in my well of sorrows
in my wellspring of joy
let me armour my heart
with both pain and rapturous ecstasy
and although the wind tear at my clothes
and the tide threatens to wash me away
let me stand firm, rooted in who I am
with the miles I’ve walked having calloused my feet
and turned them to stone
let me swell my chest and raise my chin
and let my hands rest gently at my side
and although tears course down my time, and weather, and weary worn face
let me smile the smile of a fool in love
who was wise enough to know to only bend my knee
and lower my head at that touch and that touch alone
Let me hold myself, dignified
having lived a life not envied by many
but lived by me carried out with steel strong spine
and  sheer will the sea alone can understand
until I be carried away, nothing more than a twinkle in time
but a twinkle nonetheless.

Mother Mary (Poem)


(Photo by Alina Sofia)


My consciousness wanders in the cool of the evening
When the sound of the air conditioning unit hums it’s perpetual song
After the rains have swept heaven free of sticky summer air

A Marlboro red burns between my fingers as I linger in my chair
The smoke climbing blue grey tendrils upward and out of sight
My lovely slow death, when I think about life
As my wind chime tinkles away in the breeze

My lover is fast asleep mumbling in his dreams
About his worries, and grinds his teeth and apologizes for not being the best of the best of the best
To phantom faces of his industry
A race never ending to simply live in this world

But he is the best
And he is who I think of
My Jesus at five foot eight inches tall
My Atlas, my St. Michael
Beloved, enchanting my immortal soul, and giving rest to my weary mind
And pleasure to my wanton body
He stands guard at the doorway of my heart

I’ve never known love like this
Sweet Mary, sweet mother please hear my truth
I fear the cup of my heart is filled with holes,
While my mind is filled with razors
Understand that his love keeps me hungry
And the wine has yet to be bitter on my tongue

Even though he slumbers, in mumbling shifting sleep
And as minutes tick by, shifting sands, in the cool night air
Let the day’s last cigarette burns slowly down
Let me love him, and keep him, and I’ll love you
With the love of a long lost lonely child
Until the oceans and my words run dry

My husband