The Crowning of Mary and of Us

May is the time
of May Crownings
and First Communions,
of blossoms
and of light,
bringing forth the delicious awareness
of the exceptional distinction
of being young,
and female,
and Catholic.

Lace and tulle bedecked,
with veils and crowns,
we share our unique significance
with the Mother of God!

With her we come forward
to receive Our Lord--
our innocent "yes"
facilitating the union--

God alive
in us.

The feelings fade
over time
but come back
in waves

like labor,

giving birth
to a long forgotten longing

and in dreams
that visit
when day time defenses
are asleep,

and call us back
to live

our ancient, created value.

The waves
of olive green
lap weakly
on the muddy shore
and never succeed
in covering up
the dead fish.

Bay

The waves
of olive green
lap softly
on the muddy shore.

The pungent smell
of salty, rotting fish,
given as an offering
to the gods of modernity,
surrounds the vacationers .

Nature has been
relegated to the outskirts--
down the street,
around the corner,
and to the left,
to be seen only
when you steal
a few minutes
alone.

Dream Time

Like an ancient priestess
I cover us all
in violet pigment.

The color
is different on each of us,
not achieving
the craved-for sameness.
The pre-school purple
does not hide
who each of us
has become.

I paint with larger and larger brushes
but our hair,
grows in unexpected places,
and refuses to be covered.

I turn and notice a family--
A baby, two children
and a father with a beard.

Their hair is the color of an erupting volcano—
a dancing flame alive in the light.

They are breathtakingly united
yet strikingly unique

and I stare, marveling

that such a thing

is possible.

Pompeii

And the people
went on
marrying and being given in marriage
right up to the day
when the liquid fire
covered their lives
and froze them,
together
in a moment
of eternal stagnation.

Make a Picture

Make a picture.
Use colors
so bright
it makes people smile.

Create textures
so real
that people gasp.

Make a picture
with carefully
drawn lines
that form
into

poems.

Poems Formed

Are poems formed
in the rain?

Do their cells divide?
Do the words provide
release
from pain?

Do they grow
in the snow?
Are they bold
as the cold
clings to wounds
left to mold,
rot and grow
with the strain?

Do they flee
with the sun
all ablaze--
do they run
from the light,
seeking night?
Or will day
snatch the veil--
show the grief--
it made plain?

Dark clouds gather
like thick smoke.

Burning tears,
fall like needles
from my eyes.

I cannot see.

I cannot breathe.

And yet, I endure.