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.

on the radio
in the restaurant

Mellow Yellow       mellow
                cello
Beatles muzak

Beatles music
jukebox

in the nursing home

to calm the
aging hippies

I walk through the world
looking out
through a dark glass,
dirtied and obscured
by passing storms
that nevertheless
follow me about--
blurring
my vision
of the world,
but not
the world's vision
of me.

In the searing heat
and the ancient, arid dust

he is birthed
he is raised
and he sees

the heavy burden
the utter oppression
and the desperate poverty
his people daily endure

and he knows
in the most elemental facet
of his being

that he has come
to save them

no matter the cost

to himself.

Party in the Nursing Home

In the great leveling
of advanced age
we are all strangers,

all friends,

at once
known

and unknown.

Long time family,
we've just met.

We share our cake
whether we know
who has come to the party

or not.

an Alzheimer's stranger,
he wheels in
and joins our party.