While I wait for the light to change,
more than a dozen windows fly by:
the rooms of passengers
going somewhere
While I wait for the light to change,
a squirrel is busy
back home,
away from trains,
rustling heavy branches
and dropping pears
like heavy, uneaten dreams
While I wait for the light to change,
the rain got bored of falling,
and left me alone again,
the air heavy with moisture
and dank memories
While I wait for the light to change,
I count comforts
in squares of light
rushing by
I am constantly counting trains
Your train never stops
for me
me too, Paul Robeson,
me too
"That ol' man river,
he must know something
But he don't say nothing"
I'm there too
in the shallows:
the blue mud of deep
southern clay
where I find green jasper
and dreams
rank from wet earth
We are all 'passing'
for something
my German is dirtied
by Danish
and lesser shades
of slushy heritage,
unwon races,
and uneaten leftovers
My avocado was ripe
for you yesterday
My showboat, she just
keeps "rolling along"
Now, Ava Gardner:
step out of the scene
Step out, Ava Gardner,
you will be remembered
by greater women
than me
My father placed it in a bowl,
in a bowl, before me.
It made me sorry to my soul.
'Twas then that I could see...
that I became aware...
the oatmeal sitting there
was not oatmeal I could eat -
I'd asked for cream of wheat,
and the cereal of my father,
my own dear uncle's brother,
sat uneaten, and grew cold,
as both of us grew old.
stop connecting
dinner plates.
There is no room
for nourishment
or meaning.
Forget dessert.
I will be there.
Let me dance naked.
I will be raw
and incorrect.
I am full of manic
mannerisms
and dramatic
gestures
that dance,
however desperately.
Tomorrow
I will edit
the imperfections.
Today,
let it be
in the uneaten peas
on a plate.
The errors
illustrate me.
There’s fish and chips on the table
It’s lovely and all piping hot
Sauce and vinegar was in bottles
Salt and pepper each in its pot.
Now it’s laid out on the table
Driving me more and more to despair
It’s in individual little sachets
And some of them won’t tear.
My fish and chips lie uneaten
And they’re rapidly losing heat
Without a splash of vinegar
Their taste just isn’t complete.
Stuff just poured out of bottles
Didn’t give me the despair
Of wrestling with plastic satchels
That just won’t bloody tear
There’s designers and designers
Each in a field of their own
And I’m sorry if I’m grumpy
And ever ready to have a moan
But there is this little saw
That’s Quite frequently spoken
Just don’t try and fix a thing
If the original ain’t broken.
The porch-potted have attenuated
into stick insects.
Geraniums are hallowed be dark moons,
Fragility turns to desiccation.
The red tin watering can
is iced over by a fallen sun.
Of a sudden, a yawning dawn
freezes, is pinned
to a fixed grimace.
Unlock the front door,
push a grudging frosted screen.
Slipper bound toes shrink back,
blood drops through ice holes
in arterial walls.
Tropical fruits uneaten,
beds unmade and cooling,
cat hiding under a throw rug,
just its tail flicking a weather warning.
Slap and lock the door,
ignore the creaking porch
as it were a gutted grave.
Upon a kitchen wall
eyes trace a diminishing light,
a trace that once was a warming ray,
now has congealed into a fingerbone
of yesterday.
April was the koolest month
we walked in the green uprising,
to gather berries,
would eat them as we trekked
the crunching woods.
It was1999 and the sky was clear
for months after;
we had time to can the berries
and preserve them.
Thus when the TV conjectured
the possibility of a global plague
all the channels began to
reprogram themselves;
to electronically dream-up
the year 2020 into our reality.
We had to look away from the screen,
had to ponder our relationship
if perhaps one day
one of us ever went missing.
In a recycling pantomime of motion,
we watched the untimely dying
being pushed on gurneys
out into the deserted streets.
Later we trashed all the uneaten berries
scrubbing our hands
as if they would be forever stained.
breakfast pieces
forever
uneaten
Oh life give us love;
Then gone when eyes do feather blink
A moisture that marks what arms cannot undo,
A harm that minds without what love might think.
We stand between a moment, on the brink,
Hesitating to reach, afraid to touch or be touched.
Shadow phantoms lingering.
Echoes of untried barriers, picking fruits uneaten by gods,
Left by passing winds to rot upon the earth.
In the pit of our stomachs there lies a pain
Stitched to the soul by a line of ending days.
We are not the zipper that stays, or the thread that frays,
We are only a hue of colors that in the end will fade.
Hunger is worldwide; I don't understand why
Trash cans are filled with untouched food
Starvation is real; why must another die?
We can feed the homeless from our food supply;
Or help food banks, it can brighten their mood,
Hunger is worldwide; I don't understand why.
Wasting food is a major issue, we mustn't deny,
We should help if we can and stop being rude
Starvation is real; why must another die?
It's affecting us all; do you hear the earth’s cry?
Not just a “them” problem, I must conclude
Hunger is worldwide; I don't understand why.
We fill our belly with everything that we buy,
And see someone in need and are often shrewd
Starvation is real; why must another die?
Restaurant plates have a ton of uneaten food; sigh,
Our waste can be a lifeline to the homeless dude.
Hunger is worldwide; I don’t understand why,
Starvation is real; why must another die?
The table's bounty is piled high
Family's poised to dig in and try
Mama's turkey, special stuffing
And sweet potato pumpkin pie
When a knock at the door freezes us all
Who can it be who's come to call
The wind is howling; let him in fast
There's room for one more at our repast
He enters shivering and shaking
His bony frame twitching and quaking
He opens his mouth as if to speak
Then collapses to the floor in a heap...
The ambulance summoned, we wait aghast
Silent and anxious, when at last
The ambulance arrives, but it's well past too late
The poor fellow's soul has fled to its fate
The Thanksgiving meal sits now uneaten
As our tears reflect the depth of man's plight
These sad tidings fortune cannot sweeten
~ Death has extinguished a light
Hearts tattered and dilapidated
Eyes warn with worry, looks vacated
These souls beaten and exhausted
Their love devoured by a raven
Birth of a child with a crib now empty
Baby food jars uneaten, dippers unused
Thoughts now linger with no purpose
Time no longer has a meaning, it has stopped
She carried a child to full term
Nine glorious months of laughter and cheer
Planing and organizing then naming
This name now placed upon a stone
Years have now passed this name still appears
Memories never to be forgotten, of that day
The day their son was placed into Gods arms
Life moved on but their thoughts have stayed
On the Day their son passed away
“Written for my Niece and her husband each year since his death they have a gathering letting balloons go up into the air it has now been 18 years”
In the darkest hour...right before dawn.
Life comes full circle...as it's almost gone.
How did I start...how did I end?
How much did I break...how much did I mend?
I've done a little right...and a whole lot of wrong.
As it all winds down...I must finish strong.
Many a storm...I stand battered and beaten.
Fruits of my labor...left behind uneaten.
Ashes to ashes...dust to dust.
Be sure to forgive...that's a definite must.
Pick your battles wisely...fight the good fight.
Leave behind all of the bad...as you step into the light.
A bird succumbed by its family,
With a dainty little song
They survive natures winters
They survive through it all
So I wonder about this chickadee
Which visits me
And I wonder what a coincidence it may be
That I’ve never had birds
Or even heard them sing
For before, I had bird seeds,
Uneaten and clean
And now with abundance,
There’s always a mess
And a song, and a dance
While I drink my coffee
It began with a careless remark
Uttered by one of the dinner guests,
Which ignited fury's sudden spark!
Perhaps it was better unexpressed.
Politeness went out of the window,
Good will left by the door,
Late afternoon lost its ruddy glow,
In the wake of the uproar!
Amid the August mess so fine,
Dinner, uneaten, grew cold.
Trembling glasses, spilled the wine;
The day grown quickly old.
Like butterflies, were all disguised?
Did they hide themselves so well?
Was it here today that love died,
Or long before the dinner bell?
Mockingbird sings to a summer night-
After the end, no turning back.
Though darkness is but a shadow of the light,
It is profoundly black!
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