Posted on April 24th, 2012


You'd think if I got lost, someone would miss me,
or notice only air where I had been.
And so they would
wonder out loud
where I'd gone, how long
since anybody'd seen me.
Had I said good-bye,
called, written,
(As though words might be made to answer.)

They would - though not right away perhaps -
have made inquiries.
They who make so many sorts of things.

But no one's noticed
I am gone.

Because I'm standing here
they will refuse to wonder
or inquire.
They will not look for me.

And some old woman answers my front door.
My ailments wrack her frame.
She wears my shoes.
She tries get my bearings.
I tell her she should
let somebody know.
She says
she can't think
or what to say.

Posted on November 8th, 2011

Writing a poem a day for the Center for New Americans November Fundraiser. May our work be worthy of the ones we welcome to our midst. This was day four, harder than day three.

Easter, Hours Before Dawn

I can’t see the clock. Is he up yet?
Who else shushed the angels? God
put the risen dead to bed last night
all tuckered out from three days back
alive while he stormed the caverns
of their demanded dooms
and made their tombs
How can even he contain
- rein in –
laughter capable of parting seas
from the dry land,
before the mountains were
brought forth or ever they
hadst formed the earth
that morning so very like/so very unlike
this—the world has aged, and man— but for today
they hang the morning star
in reach of children, He has already
pulled the covers from the corner of the sky,
made coffee, stoked the dawn, called home,
sat down to wait.
Tapping his foot.
Drumming his fingers.
Love isn’t patient.
He might yet rend the night.
Love isn’t kind.



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