I watch the shadow-wings
swooping/gliding,
blocking out the sun.
I feel cold death
looming,
tingling through my veins,
as I scurry/flee
through my field home-
swiftness, silence,
chasing me down.
The blackness
blinds me
until I feel my bitty bones
crunch and crush
beneath the weight
of talons strong-
so strong, the lifelight
fades from my
ebony eyes
and the lush green grass
of my field home
is no more.

Reach out. Let me feel your sorrow.
Hold it in my hand.
Tempt me with your grace and quiet madness
as I browse among your pain.
Mold my pathos with your clay.
Let dawn tend exquisite sadness,
then slip quietly away.
Your footprints sketch a path
on gilded grains of sand, they wed.
Each night they curl
around my pillow,
sweetly singing
to the darkness
sleeping in your bed.
Your dusty portrait blinks at me,
its oily eyes encased
within its musty wooden frame.
It longs to brush the silence.
It aches to hear its name.

The twisted trees are shedding leaves
Upon the autumn wind.
The air is cool. So peaceful, now,
I turn my gaze to view
The powdery clouds suspended
In a sky so soft and blue.
The lily pads ablaze with green
Across the water top-
Waterdrops like diamonds in the sun…
The red-orange trees are set afire.
The colors take my breath.
They shimmer in the morning sun-
Too soon they meet their death.

empty vagrant shout
like secondhand beans spilling out
pebbles on the flies
dubious disguise
crumpled leg shadows
on deserted dusty walls
on a sidewalk window display
on a child’s broken doll
to what fate entice her here
to cornered streets
to stinking fear
useless years
upon her breath
city sounds
play out the death
of the mendicant she was
waiting once to borrow
a fraction of today
by a bare thread of tomorrow

While sorrows mount
and trials reign,
a silver lining
yet remains.

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In the dark of the night a child screams,
a wisp of cloud drifts on.
Mothers and others with faces so pale,
tributes to days long gone.

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No one really knows
that I am here.
They only know
that they are there.
I am a clown,
a puppet without strings.
My imaginary movements
are so clumsy.
I’m a bird
without its wings.
No one sees me
when I smile,
but they applaud
when I fall down.
I taste my salty tears
as I pick myself
up off the ground.
I sometimes feel so alone.
I cannot bear the pain.
I’m dancing only
for my peers,
to see their smiles
and hear their cheers.
And I will never know
that I am here,
while they will always know
that they are there.

Oh Texas, my Texas,
I loved you while young,
when the songs of my youth
were still fresh on your tongue.

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Morning things
Suck my breath
In the snap of cool, shallow waters

Hummingbees bumble
In bright striped jackets.
Squirrels chip fat nuts
In puffy cheek baskets.
Sunbirds’ electric wings cross
Tripling waves of heat, sweating.

Children’s freckled, dimple-smeared faces
Grow pockets of wrinkles on the next block.

Blueboard skies
With pillows of chalk
Blend with thin blades of grass.
Inhale the
Rich and earthen moisture
As I pass.

The shadows have not yet grown long.
Sing to me my morning song.

A child’s hand stroking
a soft peach-fuzzy cheek.
Nurturing, gentle, sacrificial,
life-giver, life-bearer,
adventurous, story-teller.
Made in the image of God.
Made in the image of Eve.
Her Creator she will laud.
His hands artfully weave.
A weaker vessel to declare,
inside of her a life to bear.
Outside of her a life to care.