Poem.

Oh, the rivers that will flow-
And the faces that will go.
All the way pass the door,
And out into the void.
The void is in another room.
We tiptoe past the field of gloom.
I see your eyes, they light with grace,
As they move about any place.
The rainbow in the sky has grown;
Falling faster than we have known.
The weeds grow in the building lot,
A glass of lemonade will hit the spot.
The wind roars through the shade.
I look at all the art I have made,
A collage of words, a still of voice,
This is what I did, it is my choice.
The art is in mountains,
It is in fountains.
It is in the air-
Or walking down the stairs.
The colors of the void are dark,
We can’t begin to light a spark,
Of the night that surrounds us all,
And leaves again in the fall.
Oh, the rivers that will flow.
And time will stand still.

It’s All Relative.

My mother’s voice keeps me still.
I walk backwards.
I have eyes in the back of my head.
My words mean little to anyone else-
I have been raised by a street lamp.
The stars beam down on me.
The wind glistens like rain.
I am desperate for noise,
for music-the clarinet just won’t do.
Did I just say that? I didn’t mean
how it sounded;
didn’t mean the words that came
from my mouth,
that were uprooted from the ground.
I take myself out for lunch at McDonald’s,
and drive home to read a new Danielle Steele
novel.
This is the extent of my day.
It makes me happy.