the path is being built
stone by stone
by those in our lives
who stop and lay down
a tile
to help

Witch on a Stick

I'm standing on the porch
with my witch-on-a-stick.
Surrounded by orange-and-black
gobblined children,
the witch starts
to foretell their
frightening futures.

Surprisingly, the shoes fit,
comfortable as they are expensive.
But, at what price?
After betraying myself
for a bit of bling
I flee to the
comfort of a
well-worn, broken in pair
who accepts me
as I am.

Eucharist

Wrapped in the gold
of Divinity,
You offer us
the sweetness
of Your Love,
given to us
by human kindness.
Taste and see
the goodness
of the Lord.

The Mirror

She rises, sightless,  from her bed
and walks about the house,
comforted in its inky blackness;
Aware of an unseen trajectory
each obstacle is avoided by visionless eyes.

She comes upon a wall and
gazes in terror...
the sound of a scream
piercing her agreeable dormancy,
and sees her own
face.

The Edge of Night

I lie awake
in restless dreams.

I watch the
pairs of people.

Two with red hair and black hats,
walk quickly away.

I wonder
how will they hide themselves
with their flaming hair
peaking rebelliously out of the their charcoal fedoras.

I follow people
through confusing corridors
and notice
they are dressed
from another time
and place.
Refusing to come out
from behind
their inflexible homogeneity,
they will not join *this* group.

I see two brothers, unnaturally attached
in inexplicable ways.
I ask
how is one
born of the other
and never get
an answer.

I watch the pairs
of people.

I watch
from the
edge.

August

Someone is stoking the furnace.
The coal has been shoveled in--
little by little-- all summer
and is now being lit with a heavy hand.

The world is surreal
in the wavy mirage
that is the final time
between relaxation
and responsibility.

Summer hopes give way
to monsters in the closet
and solitary naked dreamers
in clothed classrooms
taking tests
for which
they have
not
studied.

In Heaven's Presence

We are surrounded
by light,
white
and blinding--
beauty unsurpassed.
Our hearts leap within us
reunited
at last
with those long forgotten
who'd drifted down the still waters
of our pasts.
Our spirits soar together,
unable to fully encompass
the Love
that surrounds us,
complete
and unending,
all turning towards the same God.

A small child
reaches
for a rose.

Thornless,
red blends
with yellow.

Her exuberance
does not
kill its beauty.

I wrap it carefully,
the paper molding like clay
into a suitable container,
and, protected,

it grows.

Catching Up

I am running and running.
It is catching me,
the molasses monster--
making my brain
sticky and slow
and dis-functional.

What will happen to me?

Will I escape
at the last moment?

Will I find myself
able to breathe
underwater?

Is there anyone left
who knows

cpr?

I move through the day
as through molasses--
sweet, sticky,
and slow.

I am a snail
in the summer
a listless sloth
among strong, sinewy saplings.

I live in a dream world
of subconsciousness.

Naked in public,
I walk uncertainly
into a strange classroom.

I have not studied
for the test.

I find myself
suddenly
in the middle of a road,
the blacktop
hot under my chest.

I pull myself along
at an agonizingly slow pace.

I am unable to crawl away
from the moving train.

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.

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.

The partially buried dead
is hardly noticed by passersby.
Haphazardly covered
by unsteady sand,
it is part of the
changing landscape
of this world.

Dream World

in this world
the dead are buried
in the sand
shifting, uncovered
by the breeze and time
and left alone
to be noticed
by passersby

i cry in my dreams
over painting
and themes
of brand-newness
and gifts unexpected
in times unconnected
and changes suspected
it seems I've neglected
my dreams

I am tired.
How did I get here?
You didn't tell me
how it would be.
You didn't ask me.
There was no preparing.
There was no permission.
You just put me
in this situation
with vague promises
of someone being there.
They were no help.
They would not explain.
I could see them
shaking their heads.
I told them
I was usually
more in control.
I apologized.
But still, I was ignored.
They were watching
the affect of what
they fed me.
How would I react?
What would I do?
At any rate, I would
have to pay.
If I chose.
One hundred dollars
for a dirty pillow.
Even though it was
my pillow
I would leave it.
Unpaid for.
It isn't worth it.

As I navigate the treacherous snow-covered roads
the stuff of everyday life is thrown at my feet.
I trudge on, avoiding
the people on the periphery of my past
in whose world I travel,
the one attempt at communication
pulling me awake
when reality invades.