You are here,
again.
No, not "again".--
Only in the ether
of an old woman's mind,
whose subconscious cannot see
the grey hairs
on her head.

Mini-Series

@ 14,
I hung onto
the romance,
tantalizing, subtle,
and somehow, intelligent,
it became what I longed for.

@ 50,
I cry for their lost chances.

Mistaking him for her brother,
he cuts off
thirty years.

Realization

An old woman,
too plump to be pretty,
my lipstick travels outside
the lines.

A Christmas Poem

In the bleak midwinter
the Christ Child again
asks to enter into our hearts
and melt the ice that insists
on forming there
against our better judgment --
our attempts at thawing
only serving to set it afire
in a soul-consuming explosion--
our attempts at cooling
turning it once again
to ice.

To rage against
humanity,
fist clenched
and eyes--
is to be blind
to the effect
of the rage
on ourselves.

If you run away
from hypocrisy
and cruelty
or run towards them
brandishing the sword
of hatred
you will only breed
that which you so abhor.
Embrace
and let go
knowing that
deep down
you are no better;
no worse
than any.