Tools

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Uncertain toolbox
And uncertain feet
A map that is crumbled and frail

A childhood song wafts
With mem’ries of North
Distant — but God’s path prevails!

Joy, He will give you
Peace, you will have
For, He does call you His own

The world may leave you
Reject, and thieve you
Still you are never alone

2nd Story Window

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What’s been in our window’s way, I don’t know

How many promising nights did we wait

Sun gracing each season’s skies through the years
That’s what they claimed all those arduous days
But our eyes didn’t see
What our skin didn’t feel

Now comes the end, so the calendar sings
Belt it out here, with me
Not a song that tells you you’ve got to go home
Instead check the window sign

You’re not alone

Magician’s Scarf

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Who each woman is

Does she smell like lavender fields

More worthy of obsession with each passing Day

Why the fabric of her dress upon her skin causes men to sing?

The Earth springs forth, as I imagine, musical notes with her every step. Yes.

Such passion must she follow, as to leave us inspired

Her smile draws from an endless-deep joy well

Words from her soul have him come hither, a pulling of magician’s scarf

Impart

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Give me, gift me your assignment now that you are gone, for I was to each day greet your wrinkles, your papers: My touch, the unsugar-coated ink atop your laugh lines, your copy lines…my voice, an unedited reporting of your happiness, your joy.

Long Since Zen

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Should any of self-proclaimed gods upon high

Be lying in wait for my feet to trip up

Be prowling as jackals for meat from my bones

Grow old you shall, ‘fore you find my will at play

Dementia and graves will be yours if you dare

Take me on for sport will you?

I cannot care

Lincoln Green

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Why if we scream
Are we questioned
Our sanity
Our faithfulness
Our allegiance with true patriots

What of war cries
Of the war crimes
Our eyes opened
Our sleeves rolled-up
Our feet planted where lies cannot stand

When Good returns
To the Empire
Who’ll be kneeling
Who’ll be weeping
Who’ll be seeing that they have no clothes

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Copper Daughters

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Some of these
Cannot convey just joy
Created and groomed and put on display
Destined
Somber storytellers and hope-beacons
Alike
Unable to deny
There’s reason to smile, to shine
But not fully
There’s cause to rise
But only as high as the least

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