Mama Speaks to God...For me
Feet, Mine Own
I Told God
No You Don't
WE CIRCLE THEIR SUN
Songs Returned
A Child's Time
Oh Villanelle

This first poem is for my Mother whom I miss very much
Mama Speaks to God...For me
[First Published in FYY Magazine, Roswell, NM]

Mama watches over me.
She helps me talk to God.
She wants me to have peace.
I want to make her proud.

Mama speaks to God...For me.

She is not bad, Mama says,
only hurt...and lonely too.
She loves so hard, Mama says,
just as I taught her to.

Sitting at His side,
Mama speaks to God.
Hard love is hard to give;
The pain is hard to hold.

Mama says to God,
Forgive her human faults,
you know. . .I did.

Mama speaks to God....For me.

Feet, Mine Own
[First published in The Candlelight Poetry Journal]

On pig's feet pickled, I've no need to dine.
To fill my mouth, I have dainty foot of mine.

My humorous verse leaves colleagues cold,
and finds no friend in brothers bold.

Into my mouth, sly foot makes its trek,
wrapping witty words around my neck,

until, tongue placed firmly into cheek
allows room for ten, tiny toes to sneak.

I Told God
[First published in The Candlelight Poetry Journal]

I told God to remove my burdens,
and...He did.
But, I was too busy shouldering to notice.

I told God to take my pain away,
and...He did.
But, I was too busy hurting to notice.

I told God to make my life easier,
and...He did.
But, I was too busy working to notice.

I told God that if he wasn't going to listen,
to just leave me alone,
and...He did.

But, this time...I noticed.

I argue with myself.
I do it quite consistently.
"Oh no you don't."
"Oh yes you do."
I fight among myself.

Waging such quarrels grand,
is really quite a feat.

Sometimes, I allow myself
to say I told you so,
though such occasions
truly make me wince.

But most often, I just let it stand
and sit myself upon the fence.

They are the chosen of Heaven's creation,
yet angrily they shake their fists at God,
and curse the fates that they deny.
We circle their sun and watch them die.

Bequeathed the gift of a wondrous world,
they pillage, and rape and gouge Her soul.
Listen, my friend, you can hear Her sigh.
We circle their sun and watch them die.

Her body is barren, her breath is stale.
Her skin is marred with man-made scars.
Beaten and bruised, Her death is nigh.
We circle their sun and watch them die.

They will use their world until she fades,
then reach for ours among the stars.
That fateful journey, we must defy.
We circle their sun and watch them die.

Once we came with love and gifts.
We felt their wrath of death and hate.
Now we linger, observe and cry.
We circle their sun and watch them die.

We need no weapons, nor tools of war,
Their own rage will stay their course.
As the name of Man they seek to glorify,
we circle their sun and watch them die.
 ~ ~

Songs Returned
[Songs Returned was in Feelings, 1995
and won recognition in several contests in 1995 & 1996]

Who hides behind her eyelids when she sleeps?
His spirit sighs sweet songs to send her peace.
He sends sweet solace for a soul that weeps.

Fast friend of hers, his love she always keeps;
his restless spirit soars, and hers he frees.
Who hides behind her eyelids when she sleeps?

Songs return to wounded soul...time repeats;
Songs blend with prayer, bidding pain to ease.
He sends sweet solace for a soul that weeps.

From heart to heart and mind to mind, faith leaps,
and bending time and bonds, it does not cease.
Who hides behind her eyelids when she sleeps?

Once shared in Sol's pure light, a secret creeps
into uneasy dreams to grant her peace;
he sends sweet solace for a soul that weeps.

She sends him songs of hope as anguish heaps
upon their burdened brows...no true release.
Who hides behind her eyelids when she sleeps?
He sends sweet solace for a soul that weeps.
  ~ ~

A child's time is
A snail creeping across a trail
A second splitting across infinity
Moments lost to the past
Moments found in the future
The thunder of energetic living
The silence of peaceful slumber
A child's time
Is God's Gift
~ ~

Oh Villanelle
[First Published in Feelings]

Oh Villanelle, you wraith from hell.
Just nineteen lines of wretched rhyme.
For verse that suits, my soul I'd sell.

What rhymes? Which works? I must excel!
The French, I curse throughout all time.
Oh Villanelle, you wraith from hell.

From heated pit wherein you dwell,
your icy flame reflects the clime.
For verse that suits, my soul I'd sell.

Bewitch my mind, you dark demoiselle.
My soul you sear with fiery slime.
Oh Villanelle, you wraith from hell.

Poor pen laments from black inkwell,
immerse, immerse for verse must chime.
For verse that suits, my soul I'd sell.

Cold Queen, you weave your dark love spell,
your spell is cast, your lure sublime.
Oh Villanelle, you wraith from hell.
For verse that suits, my soul I'd sell.
~ ~

 

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