December #19

the only color in his face is sick,
the purple lips of illness in a face
of paperwhites. this gaping slash he licks
in ev'ry moment he and Pa Time race.
There's not long yet, for he can barely speak,
and tremors move his withered old man hands.
who knows when death arrives, when illness peaks
and eyes stay shut, when Life itself remands.
grandfather, he lies there, a man no more,
a bag of bones that clicks and rattles sharp,
and while we wait we listen for his snore,
the only outward sign of a beating heart.
we wait like birds, as sick as he, just not
as noble - we're impatient to watch him rot.

December #18

my last poem for you, my love, my last
sad mourning hymn. for you have gone, from heart,
from hands, from bed. It was my fault, your start
away, the move towards our end, our past.
The present just was not enough; I needed
room to breathe. You gave me that and more
besides; this thing, both good and bad, is sore
and sad in my heart still, my eyes yet wet.
but you and i, we've long finished, and top
to that, it needed to be done. we loved
but lost, were meant to stand but instead moved.
our hearts could not withstand the sudden drop.
i'll miss you, if i may, but let you walk
by me, and take your path - don't go astray.

December #17

These lies of beauty spread under the skin
and force pale noses up into the air.
Oh spare me from your vanity, your sin.

Too many girls will forgo food for thin
and powdered faces always will look fair.
These lies of beauty spread under the skin.

The compliments will fly on idle whims
as people try, pretend that they do care.
Oh spare me from your vanity, your sin.

It's smiles and hearts and beds men try to win
as countless smiles and silly winks they share.
Their lies of beauty hide under the skin.

Women are taught to think they ought to twin,
imagined beauty, but they should be ware
and spare me from their vanity, their sin.

for those that judge by looks will cast lots in
with cover judgers - they will never win,
for lies of beauty spread under the skin
and spare none from gross vanities and sins.

December #16

I Salome dance to the beat of worlds,
the sound of drums that pulse to heart's rhythm,
and moved to dance I rise and spin and whirl
until the world must move and sing my hymn.
I Salome swirl and dip and bend,
seduce with flashing legs and eyes too dark
to stay away. Good reason gives no friends
to me, only the dying dare to gawk.
Despite my pretty face I only hide -
I have no skills to meet a man, much less
to keep him. Other girls have learned to try
and lure them in, but this I can't confess.
No matter what you think I must confess
I look but do not act the lioness.

December #15

I listen to poetry of the beat
writers and try to understand why I
am uninspired by words, their words. I try
but nothing arises, I feel no heat.
I listen; song of English kings resound
in rolling rocks of words but I can feel
no sway, no dance, nothing to help me heal
my tired, unrhymed mind. I want to drown
in music, words that fly and soar in clouds
no beats that drag me down onto the earth
and tie me here. I know what words are worth
and what they do; I know what moves a crowd.
But what I need I could not find it words;
I spend my time with music, bands and birds.

December #14

Oh Emily, Emily, sing a song,
of words and slanted light tha pushes you,
down to the floor. Your words, so close, so few,
so marked and scorned, have hidden far too long.
Oh Emily, tell me your secrets. I strive
for you, your white, your sharpened eyes, your frown.
So let me be unloved, unknown, my sound
ignored from day to day - my meager life.
But can one every understand? True Art
in poetry is skill, not chance. I'll write,
and hide, and never share my feeble light
with you. I'll hide these words inside my heart.
Oh what's the use? To push and pull at words
that never fit bun only clash like swords.

December #13

You give up awful easy for a man
who seemed sincere. So why is that - am I
too stupid, foolish, just not worth a damn?
Or are you bored, or mad, or did you lie?
Because perhaps you did. You like to say
you're perfect, like you can do no wrong.
And I'm the one that falls and fails, that pays
too much for my errors. I'll join the throng
of spurned women, pretend to cry - but sir
to call it done so soon? To just give up?
It's not your style, shouldn't be. Give more
before you let me go. Wring out every drop.
It's not my choice, I'll let you let me go
but I would rather push, just so you know.

December #11

I love the roaring magic of the trains
the song of death they sing from track to track -
the humming in my heart that echoes back -
I love the murderous sound of rattling chains.
For trains are death in metal and on wheels,
enchanting, pulling, still just mere machines
that hurtle on into the lovely scenes
of inky night - little towns, empty fields.
But don't they make you think of shaking bones?
Black skeletons that snake cross every land,
and chain us down like grains of golden sand
that slip from out our grasp. The lights that shone
on you between the lines of steel and black
could not keep you here, they only took you back.

December #10

For some reason when you hung up I cried
great heaving sobs, as if I were a child
and my beloved dog or aunt had died.
You left me with emotions mixed and wild.
But why was I so saddened and so moved?
I tried so hard, I wanted to believe
the worst. I tried - you left me so confused
I had nothing to think or to perceive.
All day I had survived the endless wait
and thought I'd be okay. Not great, but I
could live. It hit me, though, a bit too late,
that this would count failure. I'd rather die.
I wouldn't take it well, I said. It'd just
be proof that I should wrap my heart with rust.

December #12

My life is made of coffee cups and spoons.
I wander through a daze of days and mist.
I learn people by TV and show tunes.

Futures are told through tea leaves and through runes.
You read the lines I cut into my wrist.
My life is made of coffee cups and spoons.

My mind is made of shifting, windblown dunes.
I cannot know what I have never missed.
I learn people by TV and show tunes.

I'd rather spend my time with raving lunes
than memories of men or boys I've kissed.
My life is made of coffee cups and spoons.

My father drowned his sorrows in saloons.
He taught me lessons with his angry fists.
I learn people by TV and show tunes.

So all my learning's stuck in old cartoons,
I watched them as my father showed me this -
My life is made of coffee cups and spoons.
I learn people by TV and show tunes.

December #9

The red haired girl who sits beside you laughs
behind your back. She thinks you're slow, you know,
she thinks your jokes are bad. In Math you graphed
your ex and why she left you so alone
But never did you manage to sum up
just who you were. High school is cruel, I know,
I long to give you peace. But I must hope
you'll find your way without my guidance through.
My boy, you'll fall, but don't we all? It comes
the same in the end. So I'll kiss your cheek,
you'll flinch and ask, perhaps, for a set of drums.
They're cool, you'll say. I'll sigh and pay this week.
You'll grow, you know, this life will fade away.
The burns will heal, the heat will cool some day.

December #8

I let my days fly by in idle sleep.
No fires burn within my mind or heart,
I seem to think my soul of ash will keep.

I dream of wonders, rising from the deep,
of novels, poems, perfect from the start,
yet I let my days fly by in idle sleep.

My mind is full of thoughts and dreams that leap
from point to point, but will they stay so sharp?
I seem to think my soul of ash will keep.

One day my mind will only slowly creep,
And I should grab my chance and do my part -
But I let my days fly by in idle sleep.

My pen can only throw my thoughts in heaps,
and so I fear the critic's cruel remark.
I seem to think my soul of ash will keep.

But ash can crumble, fall without a peep,
no shaking steadiness like that of Art.
I let my days fly by in idle sleep.
I seem to think my soul of ash will keep.

December #7

Please can we walk and talk a while? I need
guidance, a solemn conversation. Give
me hope, some light to follow, let me feed
my tender soul with good reasons to live.
It's not that I have no reason, it's just
that all of mine are bad. I base my life
on little things, a wheelbarrow's rainy rust,
the chickens, plums, all balanced on a knife.
The edge is thin and razor sharp. I fear
to see them fall - my colors sink in mud
and filth, my chickens white, the barrow near
and red, these images befuddled.
Please can we walk and talk awhile? I long
for meaning deeper than within some song.

December #6

The falling snow fits on the distant trees,
like hands that mesh together to form one.
I hate the snow, I hate the cold, the leaves
that drip, with melting mess, so all alone.
Don't talk of hands or love or lips so sweet,
My heart which hates the snow is lusting for
the cold. It is too soon for me to meet
someone who pushes me, to take shelter.
Or so I say, peculiar thoughts in mind,
because it's less simple than I pretend.
I fear to look because of what I'll find -
a handsome man I only call my friend.
I close my eyes and lull my heart to sleep,
This feel is not love, will surely keep.

December #5

Maybe I froze my heart,
locked it up, threw it away
into the snows that cover my fields.

Maybe I burned my heart,
let it love too hard,
until it extinguished itself.

Maybe I buried my heart,
in a well of loam and soil,
and covered it, forgot to mark the spot.

Maybe I blew away my heart,
whipped it with cruel winds
until it gave up, tired
of trying to care.

December #4

perhaps I should have saved my poems,
eked them out one by one,
day after day,
instead of exploding them in noisy type
expanding across the pages.
perhaps i should have stored them like gold,
safe deep inside,
letting them out one by one.
slow and steady wins the race,
but who can run that way?

December #3

They called me Annandale, and I -
I took the road less traveled by.
There was water, water, everywhere,
and not a drop to drink,
but so much depended upon
the red wheelbarrow, glazed
with rain.
I hung my last duchess on the wall,
and went to the western gate, Luke Havergall.
There I looked at all the lonely people,
wondering where they came from,
when Time with his bending sickle did come
and then I raged, raged against the dying of the light.

December #2

She became a smoker
when he left her.
Her solution to overheating
is taking more clothes off,
not turning down the thermostat.
She had two children,
Will and Robin,
before they took them away.
They left her alone,
small house,
too warm,
in a sea of cigarette butts
and discarded clothing.

December #1

In a desperate rush to ensure
that not all my new year's resolutions go to waste,
I realize I must write
four poems of some meaning a day.
Well, time's a-wasting.