Mother Love

'Sleeping child' by Bernardo Strozzi (17th century)
My son sleeping
is divine 
with breath as tender
as his mind

With heart so soft
inside its shell -

Dear God
may this cage house him well!
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A Premature Lady

image of desert

I
an old lady
waiting in this parched bed
for something to happen

which cannot happen.


I
an old lady
with an impatient
unsated belly


that will not rain.


I
an old lady
whose slow mind spreads out
so far her eye has
lost sight.


I
the one
who age must not tame -


May my drying up cause this spark to flame!

Sky Burial

Tibetan Sky BurialI look so unremarkable
but then I imagine
so do you.

And the secrets inside
that we like to hide
are probably boring too.

So listen
why don’t we share them?
Cut our guts open
and air them?

We can have a sky burial
and invite birds of carrion
to transform
our dark feelings to food.

A Halloween Poem By Moonlight

The Moon Tarot card from the 1910 Rider-Smith-Waite Tarot Deck.

The Moon tarot card represents unconscious fears, strong dreams, intuition and imagination.

I want my poems
to disturb you
creep up sideways
and unnerve you

Sidle into your
peripheral vision
and slither in through
your too thin skin

I want my poems
to observe you
coolly through
their slitted eyes –

And when you’ve had
enough of them
I’ll call them home
to me again.

A Mother Must

"Diving Down" by Laurie Frank 2008

“Diving Down” by Laurie Frank 2008

I have decided that
poetry
is right for me
because I have so little
time to write you see.

A mother must
learn
to brush her teeth
while pondering questions
of life and death.

She must hold in mind
words
to give birth to later
and incubate them
while cooking the dinner.

She must dive clean
inside
where the stillness lies
while the world unhinges
just outside.

She must swim down
deep
and snatch a gem
and return, reborn,
to the surface again.

Worlds of Words and Meaning

Human Bones from Graveyards of Les Halles in Catacombs, Paris, France

Human Bones from Graveyards of Les Halles in Catacombs, Paris, France, by Alison Wright

Sometimes it’s like working in a graveyard, writing, shuffling dead words like dry bones, grey on white.  Creating pretty shapes and transient meanings –

Why?

Beating still time in the hot stale air of my mind.  Every word moving me further away from the target…

(the target?)

Sometimes the page is flat.  Sometimes it’s a tardis.  An outer expression of an inner world, it’s entrance (like me) shopfront unremarkable, it’s objective correlative, the universe, my mind.

Appearing words (worlds?) unconsciously, projecting them onto this portal page, which holds them safe and when time aligns, embeds them in the mind of the other.  The other then living a thousand lies (lives?) in new worlds of their own imagination…

Do I make any enduring meaning, swooning in this play of creation?

What truly matters can’t be expressed in words.  And yet, neither can it be reached without them.

Sometimes it’s like working in a graveyard, writing, but sometimes it’s like dabbling in heaven.