Making A Necklace

I like to string words together

Like smooth stones on a silk thread

Slide knot slide knot

Though not to adorn myself, but rather

To empty my head of tumbled phrases

I rearrange, change, scratch out

Break the knot, slide off

Break the knot, slide off

Each piece has a design of its own

A circular logic to follow

I try it on, read it out loud

Revisit it again and again

Beginning, middle, end

Beginning, middle, end

Are the words pretty, the colors true

A good match of metaphor and hue?

Pattern, rhythm, thought

Pattern, rhythm, thought

Then it is complete, this strand of words

I finger the gems set just right

If I could wear it, would it sparkle like diamonds?

Or just lie peaceful and earthy

Like smooth stones on silk thread

That I like to string together?

Beware the Shift

Beware the shift

That comes ever so slightly.

You may not even notice,

If you aren't paying attention.

It comes slowly, gradually,

Like sunrise, or better yet,

Sunset - the shift.

No quaking earth or howling wind

Or trumpet blast -

Just a nod, a glance

In a restaurant or a store.

The salesclerk speaks to her first, not you.

The waiter takes her order first,

As if she's the one in charge of things.

Once, you used to stride in,

With her in tow.

Now she walks ahead

And you quicken your pace to keep up.

Men and boys would look you up and down,

Pat her on the head.

Now their eyes are on her

As you fade into the background.

And not that you begrudge her

Their admiring stares.

After all, you take pride

In the beauty she's become.

You just aren't ready to be

Invisible, insignificant.

And you wonder -

Did your mother feel the shift?

The almost imperceptible shift

When you came into your own,

When your prime overshadowed hers,

When your youthful steps

Overtook her careful gait?

It is the natural order of things.

Morning, noon, late afternoon, evening...

Still, the dethroning has a feel of it's own,

When your part in the play changes.

No longer the star, now

Just a character actor,

Relegated to cameos,

Minor to the plot,

Supporting cast,

Watching from the wings

As the ingenue performs,

Her own heir apparent

Watching too, waiting for her turn,

When granddaughter overtakes

daughter.

Will she feel the shift?

It comes ever so slightly.

She may not even notice it,

If she isn't paying attention.

Driving Blindfolded

Driving Blindfolded

We watch her,

With her round belly full, ripe,

Drawing in smoke

To satisfy her urge.

The hyper-informed of us

Throw glances sharp as stone,

To rescue, to cut out

The infant hiding in its nicotine tomb

While its sisters

Cling to their mother's tree trunk thighs

Their cries begging for something -

Snot, like walrus tusks,

Ropes from their noses.

She pauses,

Wipes their mess

With her soiled sleeve.

She lifts them, roughly

One at a time

And crams them into the shopping cart.

"Shut up," she tells them

"There ain't no money for toys."

They are too young for sin.

Too young to climb

Into the back seat of a dirty car

To sweat and pant and

Receive a seed

Planted carelessly and

Without thought

That will grow into a large

Round bump, waiting to be born

Into poverty and fear,

Where school will be a chore, a dread.

And this is where Free Will

Clashes with the God of consequences.

There is no test to take, no license, no permit

No training required

For this the most impossible of jobs - parenting.

Better we should all drive blindfolded,

Than to bring young into the world

To be mistreated.

The casualties would be about the same.

Still, we watch her.

Silently, self-righteously, we watch her.

Who among us would approach her,

Gain her trust, reproach her,

Teach her to do better?

For three little souls

Will grow up to wallow in 

The footsteps set before them,

Repeating the pattern over and over again.

Who will take her on?

Her?  With all her hurts and troubles?

Surely someone else is responsible, more qualified -

What about the church?

Certainly taking on a project this big

Would swamp our boats.  We've got families

Of our own to raise.  And we've all made mistakes, too.

Who are we to cast the first stone?

The two little sisters sitting in the shopping cart

Are quite for a while,

Swallowing Pepsi from sippy cups,

Content to be warm inside the store,

Their noses somewhat clean.

It takes a ton of strength to turn away

From faces smudged with neglect -

To continue shopping, while erasing images

Of those eyes filled with questions.

Those eyes that follow my conscience

All the way home.

"Did you see me and choose to do nothing to help me?"

This is where Free Will

Meets the God of consequences.

I write a donation check to feed the poor,

Ashamed I don't do more.

Son Follower

Son Follower

Sunflower

Who keeps its face on God

The whole day through

Of sturdy stalk and golden hue

You never waiver

Or lose sight

Of the Loving Son -

That we should emulate you.

Sunflower

Blossoms, withers, fades,

Dropping seeds into 

The soil we trod

Remind us always

To keep a steady track

And to keep our eyes

On God.

Ode to Stuff

I shop

Then I see it

I love it

So I buy it

Bring it home

In a plastic bag

Take it out

Admire it

Dust it

Move it around

Dust it again

O gaudy candlestick

Deep red pillow

Fake fern

I tire of you

Store you

Box you up

Put you in the downstairs closet

With all the other stuff

Then

Sleek shiny candlestick

Bright red pillow

And fresh living plants

That will die

Dried up leaves to 

Throw into the ditch

Plastic container for the garbage bin

When the winds of renewal

Stir once more

Closets empty

Plastic bags fill with junk

Another trip to the dump

I want to boost

The economy

I do, but

Someone must stop me

Before

I 

Shop

Again!

speck of sand

I'm standing on a street corner

In the middle of Manhattan

Where millions of people march by.

Why?

I'm here, they're here, You're here.

And God, You know me?

I'm climbing on cliffs

In the Tennessee hills,

Just me and a few others, too.

Who?

I'm here, they're here, You're here.

And God, You know me?

Getting up from the beach

In sunny Virginia,

Dusting grains of sand from my feet,

I think...

I'm here, the sand's here, You're here.

And God, You know me?

Millions of people, tiny grains of sand

All in Your hands, in Your hands.

You care for me, love me, answer my prayers,

Whisper my name,

Know the number of hairs on my head,

and God, You know me.

I'm Your speck of sand,

But You know who I am.

You know who I am,

And You love me.

You know who I am,

And You love me.

"But the very hairs of your head are all numbered."  Matthew 10:30

"And I will make thy seed as the dust of the earth: so that if a man can number the dust of the earth, then shall thy seed also be numbered."  Genesis 13:16

Takes One To Know One

Do you love the sound

Of your own voice

So much

That you read what you've written

And you're happy with your choice

Of words?  Why?

So do I.

Are your spirits lifted,

Elated and light,

When the words you have sifted

Settle into the bread of your head

And fresh from the printer

You take them to your mother

Whose eyes swim in tears

As she speaks aloud

The noise from your pen

And says over and over again

You should publish or perish

So the world will undoubtedly know

She birthed a poet true?

Me, too!

Do you paint only when you're in the mood,

But you write, no matter what

Because you have to 

Get the syllables and sound

Out of your head and onto paper instead

Of going to the gym

Or keeping appointments

Or praying to God

(Because who can talk to our Creator

When our egos are puffed up

With our own scribbles?)

I can't quibble

With 

That.

Do you take your so-called gift

And let it hang, unshored

By the works of others

And knowledge in books

Because you believe

That too many cooks

Can spoil the broth

Of the consciousness stream

You're compelled to put forth

So witty and urbane?

You and I, then,

Are the same.

Do you

Rip your newborn work

From your constant companion,

Your notebook, your friend,

And type it into that box in your kitchen

Where you're supposed to be cooking or cleaning

Or bill-paying, but you live in front of

The cold screen, percolating

Over rhyme or reason

Or a phrase falling flat?

Me, too!  I do that.

Does your printer spit out your children,

And you then bind them into folders to foist upon acquaintances

Who sigh and never

Speak of it again?

Yes, that's me, my friend.

Are you a little sad when it's all over,

Deflated, spent, used up

Realizing you missed yoga

You stretch your sore neck alone

Because you stayed home -

And for what?  Yeah.

I feel like that a lot.

And in the end,

What have you got?

A folder filled to burtsing

And a vast group of people

Who avoid you

And an ever-expanding

Waist land made up of

The vanity of poetry.

When your husband comes home

And he says, "How was your day?"

And you answer, "I wrote."

And he says, "Fine.  Where's supper?"

And you sigh and order take out

And watch T. V.

Staring as actors act words written by others

While corporations sell sex in cereal boxes of consumption

And you feel misunderstood

And unfed?

Remember, your mother loves you.

And if yours  doesn't,

You can borrow mine.

She comes with my folder, though,

So there's no escaping my passion pen 

Because, after all, I do love the sound of my own voice.

I do.

You too?