Blessed Be

Blessed be the bed sores
That make them notice
That I exist
And give me those fifteen minutes of humanity.

Blessed be the medication
that falls from my hand
to the cold tiles
Forcing them to touch me.

Blessed be the little children
who actually see me
Even if
they don’t understand. “What’s wrong with her, Mommy?”

Blessed be the well-wishers
who utter empty platitudes
and then leave
But don’t send them back, please.

Blessed be the dirty floors
and the janitor
and laughter
that echoes past the sound of the mop

Blessed be the flowers from who-knows-where
That sit by my table
and fill the room
with sunshine reflecting on tiles.

Blessed be my daughter
and forgive her
and my sons
They mean to come more often, I am sure.

Blessed be.

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Random Untitled Poetry

To whisper storms to sleep at night,

To call the hidden diamonds forth,

To know–exactly–one’s own worth;

To have the mind of Christ.


To listen to a child weep–

And know you cannot kill their fears–

To be the only one who hears!

–To not die–but–to sleep;


To wait down through the longest age,

And write down all the truths untold,

To–shaking–speak as though you’re bold,

To earn an honest wage;


To live as though you’ve seconds left,

To weep as though you’re never home,

Always lonely but never alone,

Rejoicing–and bereft.


If you have lost all that you seek,

And if you’ve counted every cost:

Go to the world–and to the lost–

For “Blessed are the meek.”

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My first Free Verse experiment

The group over in the corner is disturbing me.

I think they’re fomenting revolution, perhaps. Or at least–

They’re talking about Hitler, now. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that.

And now they’re laughing. That’s just typical.

I wouldn’t laugh about such serious topics. At least not where others could hear me and judge.

And is that an accent? Ugh, from Texas, too. She’s talking about feminism.

I thought she was one of those. She has that sort of self-satisfied air. At least I–

I don’t look down on people for their learning, or assume they know less than I just because I disagree.

I’m better than that. (better than her, I mean.) Sitting smug in her boots and just drawling away.

And divorce? Someone said something about it;

Probably positive, those sinful libertines.

“As soon as I have a computer, I’ll give you your criticism.”

Ha! They don’t even like each other. Rather, they don’t, at least

Speak civilly, like decent people do; normal people

Don’t plan their criticism; are not so free with their hatred.

(I wonder when was the last time that man shaved. He’s disgusting.)

And those things really should not be said

In public. Don’t they know that children could hear? How crude.

Those things do happen, but I don’t want to hear about them

Here, where I order my coffee and get my breakfast bagel.

It’s unsettling. Who do they think they are? To air dirty laundry in public, unashamed,

To speak of wounds in everyday voice. At least I don’t–

Don’t speak of my wounds above a whisper;

Don’t laugh at my pain; don’t make a sound;

Don’t let the world see my weaknesses,

Don’t rail at the darkness,

Don’t make



And they laugh. Out loud.

They’re disturbing me.

That group over in the corner.

They’re too alive. Too loud. Too honest.

They call themselves poets; I know what they are,

Mockers and slanderers, liars and filth.

I’m not like them, at least–

I’m clean.

“For it is not the well who need a doctor, but the sick.”

Pass by that haven; they’re too happy there.

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Poetry cannot be taught

Poetry cannot be taught,
And writing is not learned.
Classrooms give no wings to thought–
Nor teach you how to yearn.

But watch the world for half an hour–
Be silent in your soul.
Leave, for once, your ivory tower
And listen to the pull

Of falling stars, of concrete, trees,
Of lovers’ rendezvous–
Dance unshod through dewy grass;
Memorize your shoes.

Read a book–or two–or three–
That makes you laugh aloud;
Be unashamed to shout and weep
Amidst the grey-black crowd.

Then listen to a little child
As if he were a king;
Sit with him an hour, and wind
His yoyo on its string.

Then–and only then–you might
Begin to hear the song
That underscores the woolen night;
That makes the day run long.

Then, if you hear the glittering words
And pull them from thick air
The heartbeat of the universe
Might open to your ears.

And if to class you then return
You’ll know the truth untold:
A poet’s born, and learns to yearn
By first becoming old.

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The Wreck

The air conditioner just died;
She couldn’t find a parking space.
He says he loves me for my mind.
How many signals did I miss?

The coffee-mug spilled on her shirt–
I didn’t see the light was red!
“You’re asking for a world of hurt.”
He found her in a hospital bed.

“This bruise is shaped just like a hand.”
It wasn’t my fault; I couldn’t stop!
Please don’t; please, no! Please! I can’t stand.
The nurse awoke her; why did she sob?

“It’s all just fine.” “You’ll be okay.”
But now she’s lost another fight.
Today was a very, very long day.
And tonight will be a very long night.

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Random Poetry Interlude

A poem I’ve been working on. It’s rather archaic, and I don’t know that I am very proud of it, but I don’t think it’s going to get much better.


East of Moon, and west of Sun

Through golden lands the river runs

To glassy sea;

I sing to thee

And pray the night be not o’erlong.


The river winds its tangled way

Through mossy hills; with no delay

For night is long,

And comes the sun,

To sing thee waking to the day.


Then breaking, shattered, falls the stream

o’er crags–and rainbows in it teem

From sunny day;

And rush away

The river goes–for thus I sing.


Then joyous, splashing, hindrance-free

The river finds its home-to-be

And sweet it seems

As in a dream

I sing it dancing in the sea.


West of sun, and east of moon,

The river winds, and gently croons

That to the sea

At last go we

for everlasting joy we’ll die

But in my arms now gently lie

For I love thee,

And thou lov’st me

And morning comes eternally

In lands undying, where go we soon

West of sun, and east of moon.

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