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Free verse
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crows seem to be the first to find it
sometimes it bubbles up
from under a rock
or out of the side of a hill
the crows know where it is
they feel it when it come to the surface
she was sick she had been sick
for a year maybe more
she would set in a wheelchair looking
out the window watching the birds
while she waited for her next treatment
in the ironwood tree sat three crows
they called to me as I walked to the door
I had silk roses for her
she could not stand the sweet sent
of the real ones anymore
the crows flew away as
grandfather set in the lobby
in a salt-back chair
his wet face in his hands
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Prose Poetry
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The clock strikes twelve
and it is time for her to go now,
I hold her for another hour;
she tells me she really has to be going,
then I say, "My love, don't leave me."
I am afraid of the dark
and I need your love
I need you;
both you and I need each other.
"I really must be going," she says.
I hear it in her voice,
she doesn't want to go either,
as a blooming rose says to wintertime,
I hold her hand and I kiss her soft lips.
She is tense,
but she loves, and she loves good.
My dear, one more hour that is all I ask;
do that for me, if you truly love me.
(Times ticks and tocks, as the old grandfather clock gongs-
-My love another hour please,
leave with me,
go with me,
to the garden of beauty and love with me-
Come now my love, another hour we spend together,
I cannot help myself, but hold you closer and closer to my heart,
one more hour,
let me crawl in your heart and warm your soul,
and watch a movie in your mind,
a sweet romantic movie- no popcorn or soda- for I wouldn't want to dirty your mind,
and we shall go together,
and love together simultaneously, to the ticking of the old grandfather clock.
Only an hour more my dear- my love an hour more is all I need.
.2.16.2014.
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I do not know?
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Songs belted out in a moment of sadness
while the sun stains the clouds in her colors chameleon
Facing the sea as the ashes kiss sand
letting the wind pull the songs off the land
Grieving continues that year in the open
Laughter seeps into the melody mourning
Tales from her youth in Crimea's rich forest
cast from our lips in the manner she taught us
The time she was starving and ate poison berries
then jumped down into tree limbs, waiting and merry
Unconscious and limp in the bed of a stream
That Turkish man came in a wood scented dream
A gypsy by nature, a friend of her fathers,
brought her back home to the village of his brothers.
Or what of the time, on a frozen park bench
she met the great Rachmaninov eating his lunch
He pulled out a chocolate from his wool, jacket pocket
and spoke of her beauty, like a good Russian mandate.
When did the songs stop for her in her life?
Was it when she was singing of a girl selling wares
and her father took his pitch fork with a furious glare
and pinned her, as he yelled without kindness hindsight
for the song was a tale of a woman of the night?
Or was it the war, the infamous war?
Not with cruel Hitler, but the war of Great Katherine.
The woman who held all her emotions within.
From the moment the sheep closed his eyes in her arms
She stoically built up her walls with alarms.
She refused to love any, for leave her they would
and she dug her feet into the earth where she stood
My grandfather smiled attempting to soften
the cold, vile stare which she shot him so often
and I in my youth thought that I would discover
this woman had love for me, like my own mother.
But, as her ashes joined the sea
she took with her, her chance to be
a wife, a mother, loving grand
and left her songs in her own homeland.
I wish to one day laugh with her
and sing aloud in mirth with her
I wish for her innocence to be restored
and one day to be, by her, adored.
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