The Painter.

I am troubled by these new designs
that flock my patterned walls with straight arrows.
The painter has to come and finish this mess.
He has big, flabby arms, a pointed nose,
and beady eyes like a wolf.
I couldn't see myself marrying him,
or anyone else for that matter.
My mother, she was such a saint,
she did all the painting herself on the old house-
the one with the faded wallpaper that made
me think of the houses in the 80's,
you know what I'm talking about,
the ones where the construction builders
don't paint the house for you.  You have to hire
someone else.  And now, as I am standing here,
watching the painter work with the walls,
I think again of how lucky I am to have a house
at all-I thought about this before, and before,
and before.

What It Is Not.

The dancer stares at me from beyond his sight.
I am worthless and in flight.
The dust to dark has returned-
my aunt is still dead in her urn.

The tables and chairs are still on the stairs,
and the woman in white is about to take flight.
Here is the worthless coin at the fair,
and I hope to go out with my lass tonight.

The dancer moves with the grace of a lamb,
and shadows the floor with her body.
The cook has sent out another ham,
and the maid is scurrying in the lobby.

The Sweetheart's Revenge.

I live in water.
I dwell in winter.
Inside the heart, I am plenty.
Nothing is safe within me.
Grass grows like pretty flowers,
and bells are distant
to my ears.  Strangeness hears.
The wind blows through me.
I am quiet with my readiness.

The road is less traveled.
Lend me your ears.
Strangeness is around me.
I see nothing and hear nothing.
My love comes from afar to see me,
and I sing like the greatness is coming.
Words befall me.