little by little
i whittle away
to pay
the debt i owe
upon this world of woe
for in the whittling
i find true joy

Sweet Girl

what sort of smile did you wear?
did you have a ribbon in your hair
when first you met over a malted
and agreed
that he'd
pick you up at six
to take a walk
along cobbled paths
rain slick
pond-side in the park
in the company of ducks and geese
and strangers
that you did not see
a prelude to a meal
a drink or two
and a rousing game of pachenko
never before had you
smoked
or stood with lips dry and parted
eyes joyous darted
to the floor, his strong hands, eyes, shoulders
his dark hair
against your cheek
his breathing in your ear
your knees so weak
you could never have imagined
that decades on...
you would wait in the car
while he limped into the pharmacy
to help your cause
your mouth locked in a grimace
so little color left in your face
the glisten in your eyes resigned
to their reddened rims
bags rest atop your sallow cheeks
your back stooped in perpetual decline
feet sore
and ankles swollen
kept warm
with a shawl woven
at his bequest
upon the occasion of your fortieth

his love never more true
than now
never
before of greater depth
he sees you still
in the bloom
of his blossoming love
his
Sweet
Girl

days of grace
and ones of toil
days of joy
and of consequence uncoil
more quickly than a striking snake
to bite one with but memories
where life once was

a walking poem

i am not proud
nor am i ashamed
i am not modest
nor am i immodest
i am of the scent of a wet dog
i am of the clip-clop of a broken sandal
upon the path
i am of the trees
arching high above the trail
and of the fallen leaves
which lay spent at its sides
my sister scampers underfoot
while brother spins his world
amid the limbs overhead
my father sits, belly to ground
waiting on the hum
of the beginnings
and of the ends
my mother is all around

after each meal service

i wash dishes
for an hour, more or less,
i do not mind the dishes
they must be washed
this occupies the body
yet my mind is free
to wander and hold conversations
while my hands hold the dishes

i pray
for humility and patience
while washing dishes
for hours each week

my mind writes poetry
and stories and turns of phrase
while my hands wash ceramic

the poems wash my heart
as they occupy my soul
while soap and scrubber
occupy my hands

it is not unusual
to drop a dish
sometimes they break
while others clatter and spin to rest
either way
i laugh at my carelessness

passage temporeal

sweeping veils of desert sand
blind all eyes to guiding hands
through the ages
war over lands
incessant rages
brother against brother
witness the sages
we cite too well the dawning page
years again era
place of Pharaoh
golden face of Zion's dome
Truth in peace
asleep in Rome
alight the gilded hearth of home
of the family chosen whom
ordained in name
ascend the throne
their reign a fleeting mourning dove
as high tide, and low
Yet light and love
for knowledge, riches, glory strove
conquest by sword and bullets shone
in greatness and in grave are known
each imperial life a tome
and to each
an end is come

Alpha Omega

staring into the rock
saw the sea

staring into the sea
saw the fishes

staring into the fishes
saw the root of reeds

staring into the reeds
saw the bird

staring into the bird
saw the wind

staring into the wind
saw the breath of the sun

staring toward the sun
was enjoined by spirit

seeing with the spirit
saw All as One