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We are suns

striving to be born

in the vast nurseries

of the night


Well, it really isn’t about me.  It’s about the poetry.  Except.  Well, it’s poetry I wrote.  It has autobiographical elements in it–even the subject matter tells you something about me.


These stories are true.
the names have been changed to protect the guilty
for they are dead and will not speak
defend themselves
point fingers in different dimensions.

Yet, I swear, this is what really happened.
it didn’t happen in that place
or precisely that way.
The living must also be shielded:
lines drawn too sharply,
the intense glare of reality unsoftened
by the mist of myth
might slash new wounds
across the old.

So I will choose a heroine, a villain
dress them in costume
wigs, hats, make-up layered on with a thick brush.
You will not be sure who he is.
You will have to guess if she is me.

Because, this is the truth, I promise you.
These things happened, almost,
perhaps to me.


And then there is  the writing itself


We write about writing
so   loving the words
so   loving the process
no matter
the agony it brings
the subject fascinates us
with itself…


Or this:


I’m going on vacation
into the page
slipping in between the words
turning sideways
opening the door to another world.
This one is mine
I created it.
There are no squabbling children
bills to pay or
cleaning to be done.
There are no cobwebs here
unless I wish to conjure them.
I can go to the beach
sit in soft warm sand and
it will never cling or sift
into uncomfortable places
It will not turn up in unwanted spaces.
This vacation spot will be
as wonderful as I write it:
full of laughter, or passion,
or terror that will always end
when I wish to shut the door.
I’m so fortunate to have a ticket
Just let me pack up a pen
and some paper,
“Goodby, Hon!
See  you later kids!
Hope your day will be as good as mine.”
now, I’ll sit down with my coffee
open my mind
Ah, vacation time!


And finally there is this:


I have been dreaming words all night:
Rocks with relationships deeper than thought
mined tenaciously, conscious of their weight,
the texture they contribute, the color
they suggest building one upon another,
fitting together like a picture from puzzled
parts as likely to crack and fall apart, tear
entire thoughts out by the roots, break every
wall ever constructed in the mind–
Or settle into their self perfected spot
pin neighboring words more surely, lock them
more securely into this mental mosaic growing
like a miracle
the way elves might fashion
a few scraps of leather into
a pair of exquisite shoes

***          ***          ***

And of course any one who thinks of doing something creative has to struggle with their muse, but I’m not going there now.

If you really want to know about this poet, there is another page “About this poet”

But I’d really like you to read my poetry.  And let me know what you think.

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