Wednesday, February 25, 2009

They are children

They are children
running out
into the street
because we can't watch them all.

The traffic
going once more
to their daily grind
hits them
without a thought
and doesn't stop.

We turn away
and try not
to take the blame.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

I Am There

This year,

the purple is


the covering of the statues,

the desert atmosphere,

bare branches on the altar

and sand

in the holy water font.

It is not necessary

to contrive a season

of mourning.

It is not necessary

to manufacture

the tiresome, ashen, darkness

to get in touch with the reality of

my spiritual poverty.

I am there.

My Own Lent

the purple curtain


upon the setting sun

bringing with it my own Lent

replete with

leafless branches

waiting to bud

and desert sand


for cool relief.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

writing with one hand


behind me, thoughts and memories


the mud that is stirred

blinding me

to what



Friday, February 6, 2009

she speaks

of the cliches

of aging

and of

      the ways

the wind



the pages



the future.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009


Her mind,
or unable
to intertwine and commingle
with the increasingly impenetrable
extent of her helplessness,
creates its own intricate version
of the genesis of her fears.

Once familiar objects
are no longer recognized,
placed there, she says, by others.

They become a threat.

She sees change where none exists,
instead of recognizing
the changes
in herself.

How do we wake her
from one nightmare
to the other?

Which is worse when you are 81--
the imagination
or the reality?
Poems © Gemma W. Wilson