Which questions to answer
Which ones to watch answer themselves
Whether to rush to pursue
Whether to just let truth bloom
I am certain, though
I am manifesting, now
I’m trusting you to make sense of all this
To put a rhythm to what you see
That’s my gift to you
Find your voice
Keep the hope that all will come alive
That’s your gift to me
Such steps will be as dancing
Call it collaboration
I should’ve spoken to the sower
Not the flower, not the fruit
It was the Earth upon its axis
Not fault of the sunrise
Aiming accolades at More!
I’m complicit cursing less
could I walk backward
I would walk backward
would I erase you
I could erase you
close my eyes
close my eyes
where are the words
here are the words
here is my love
where is your love
close my heart
close my heart
Maybe your next step will be your last, but you don’t “get” to know beforehand. And instinct is absent.
The floor under your feet will tell you after the fact whether it was ever, at all, true.
And truth, it has been queried, “What is truth,” but I ask you, what is trust? What is trust?
Trust, kept buoyed by hope, took forever to fall away, and these believing eyes with it.
Expectation is only of the coming eve’ and the promise of exasperated sleep, and I praised it more than once.
One morning revealed the night had stolen the vestiges of trust, breaking free all that hope bound.
The only evidence of either, some sense of un-nameable shock. Something’d been there, but what?
Then life’s replaying of horror: The all that was and the all that’s gone. Each breath, each day, each night.
All the noise, the propaganda
The truthless, loveless bombs
Only the aftermath to deal with
Each season is Winter again
Yesterday is unrecognizable
Today is unbearable
Tomorrow, there’s no one to trust
Not even the flowers
In full bloom one day
Content to take their leave the next
To you, girl
Sister to Sister
My sole and loving admonition
If there be trust, if there be hope
It will be found in your eyes
Where they gaze
How they see
And the choosings they reflect upon
I make much of words with you
Made-up words, maybe
But your eyes, I know well
I know the Who you believed in
And still believe
In Your eyes
Within Your grasp
As the narcissi beneath the freeze
There be reason for trust and hope
I remember Chicago
Who told me the pitch of my forehead to the plane of my feet was quite perfect
I, out of all the millions
You told me, was steel more strong than the skyscrapers I surrounded myself with
I believed and became
For I trusted you, and still do -you’d seen it all, and overcame, too
Disallowed to feel; love or lust or hope or trust, this is how I feel.
Discouraged to want; kindness, presence, endless laughter, this is what I want.
Disinclined to think; hope is dead, no heart, all head, that’s no way to think.