Adultery

I came to you
My heart in turmoil
You were my last hope
Through darkened curtain
And lattice work screen
I reached out to God
Through you
My words were childish
Grasping
At the only word I knew
To tell what was happening
To my body and my soul
Instead of comfort
You asked the question
That would condemn me
To a lifetime of
Heartache
Shame
And guilt
My small “no” ended
And chance of rescue
As my tiny hand closed the confessional door
Did you stir
To see what child of God
Had cried out for help
Did you ever wonder
What other word
A catholic child would use
To cry rape
No, Father, neither of us was married
But it was still a crime and sin
So was your carelessness with my
Young soul

Alien Universe

Once…
I visited a place…

My feet accustomed to hard concrete…
Confused by the soft bed…
Of pine needles and leaves…
Murmuring, “welcome” beneath them.
My eyes hardened by sharp angles, and sun glaring off glass…
Drinking in the emerald, crimson gilded montage…
Created by oaks, firs and maples…
That blocked out the sky. 

My nose adapted to the acrid smells of gasoline and pollution…
Tasting instead the scent of butterfly flowers...
Wild honeysuckle and strawberries…
That drifted on gently sighing breezes. 

My ears addicted to harsh horns and banging jackhammers…
Feeling the gentle touch of a whippoorwills’ trill…
The treble of a hundred unseen creatures who scurried to avoid a giant…
And the taunting blather of a squirrel-staking claim to the fallen tree I sat upon. 

And when it was time to leave…
My soul cried out, “No! Let me linger! Please…
Do not cheat me of this sanctuary…
For if I depart it, surely, I will languish in Lathes, forever hence!”

Birth of a Poem

We come,

Hungry caterpillars
Upon the encouragement
Of our fellows to feed.
After we are sated,
Our chrysalises we create,
Wherein
We set your spirit free
To emerge as
Beautiful poems
That you, dear poet,
Might sip
The nectar of other’s praise.

Nourishment

I come here to be with you, two hours at a time,
To post another poem and read my fellows’ rhyme.
I wish to come more often, in fact, I would live here
To be close to those who understand the words I hold so dear.
But, life and duty interrupt upon my lover’s tryst.
And drag me back into a world where little happiness exists.
So, next time you see me up here, stop by and say “hello.”
For it is through your loving words, my poet’s soul does grow.

Child of Darkness

Dark
Were
Your deeds
That wounded
Her
Soul.
How could they
Not take a toll?

A
Child
Of light
She should
Have
Been,
Destiny lost because
Of your Sin.

They
Say
Move on!
It’s time,
But
Who’ll
Erase the pain
Of your crime?

No
Surgeon
Can remove
Scars from
From
Heart
Wounded by such
Perversion of trust.

Her
Child
Still live
Though wounded
She be
She
Survived
Your acts of
Hate and cruelty

Once
Child
Of darkness
Now child
Of
Light
Hear her cry
“I have survived!”

Cold Turkey

I fear I have developed a little habit much worse then drugs or drink
Heaven above help me, I’m hooked on pen and ink.
When I see a blank piece of paper I grabbed it up at once.
Even as I do it, I fell like such a dunce.
It wouldn’t bother me, if it were a moderate obsession
But, last night when my pen ran out of ink, I went into depression.
There are no supports groups to attend in this great nation.
For people who like me are obsessed with punctuation.
If there was a program for my affliction, I swear I’d take the vow
To give up my pens and paper, and I’d go “cold turkey” right now.
It’s not like I’ll be giving up my Harley for a scooter,
Since I just got home from buying my new computer.

Iconoclastic Pretensions

We live in an instant society
Where everything is right here and now
Which cause stupidity
That time and wisdom wouldn’t allow.
Now, everyone is an expert
Seeking fifteen minutes of fame
And we the public for get that true wisdom
And jargon isn’t really the same.
The explosion of expert opinions
Is nothing but a proliferation
Of sheer stupidity in thought
That causes more catenation
Than true wisdom
Can ever hope to thwart.
Whatever the “cause of the day”
The TV and newspapers may proclaim
Someone will surely appropriate it
As his ticket to promoting his name.
We’ve see it with every issue
As out from the woodwork experts crawl,
And discuss everything to death from dangerous cartoons
To the psychological effects of the world’s largest shopping mall.
So next time you see an expert
Spouting his iconoclastic pretensions and views
Remember they are his opinions
And not necessarily the news
The definition of expert I’ll give you
In case you need a refresher,
X is an unknown factor and a spurt is a kind of forced drop
So an “expert” is an “unknown drip under pressure.”

Ode to Our Poet

We are truly stymied there’s nowhere to turn.
We never really pay our way no matter what we earn.
When you add the cost of paper to the price of ink
And then you factor in the hours she needs to think
Then there’s the cost of postage it takes to mail us in
And entry fees, of course, if there’s a prize to win
We don’t know how she does it, nor do we quite know why
We only know that this is the trade she has committed herself to ply
And though the cost of getting us perfect is something she bemoans
We’re so very lucky she so loves to write poems.

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