The Day Before

I wonder what my mother did

the day before I was born:

I think she went to the movies,

I think she looked at the sky,

I think she ate her favorite lunch,

and chased it down with some pie.

I think she kissed my father,

I think she fed the birds,

I think she sat and pondered on

the clues in her crosswords.

I think she felt me moving,

I think she felt me kick,

I think she was ready to see me,

and wanted to do it quick.

I think she dreamed her dreams,

I think she hoped her hopes,

I think she was wishing the best for me,

and prayed she’d learn the mommy ropes.

 

Thank you to Editor Sand Pilarski for publishing my tribute 

to Graham Greene in The Piker Press.

Graham

He epitomized the brotherhood of his culture.

A caretaker of his tribe through non-dogmatic means.

A phenomenal actor, eminent,

with no pretension or ostentation.

He should have been ripe for the wolves,

but something in his eyes said

this silken haired man only needed

a handshake to make contract for his work.

He moved through films first as a slingshot,

later as a catapult.

He was a positive and gleeful package,

transplanted, in part, to the U.S. from Canada.

The fatality of his health leaves a vacancy.

The length of his age

should have been extended 

way into the sphere of things to come.

This guy had another Oscar or two in him, 

I just know it.

Thank you to editor Glory Sasikala of GloMag for publishing 

my poem in the May issue.

It’s In The Bones

We are predisposed while in the womb 

to act a certain way.

From our first toddling steps,

through the measured time of our lives,

ancestral memories, long prepared,

by the earliest civilizations,

sensibilities first given forward,

then curving back again and again,

are willing to inform us

of some brand of artistic zealotry.

We collectively embrace that trend

toward devotion to the arts.

We’re still shining cardinal features,

ready to be summoned.

Accepting widespread patterns

for the shaping of our cultures,

in the hopes that all this will become

a prelude to a single tradition.

 

Petals

Sepals fall off softly, one at a time, floating to the ground

Underneath like silk, a satin welcome

Exposed

Now sun kissed and laid bare; feel the breath of Spring on your stem

The breath of new Spring, connect with the seed

Exposing the rose button

Within this opening; feel the breath of Spring on your stem

So close, the flowering petals

Exposing the rose button

Inflorescence

So close, the flowering petals

Spring’s mounting ascent

Efflorescence

Exposed

Spring’s breathless release

Sepals fall off softly, one at a time, floating to the ground.

 

Five Angels On Whom We May Rely

Shepherd -The Angel Of Repentance

Judge wisely all these things done back in time,

Pray to him to help atone for your crimes,

To pick options for which you may rejoice,

Turning your heart to make a better choice.

Laylah - The Angel Who Oversees and Protects Childbirth

Watching out for every little new one,

Her job starts once contractions have begun,

Her strength has helped all those born in the past,

She’s tasked with aiding the human race to last.

Sablo - The Angel of Graciousness

Keep your head held high as you walk the street,

Give an unflagging smile to all you meet.

All your days, Sablo wants to help you see

how to treat others benevolently.

Asariel - The Angel Of Unconditional Love

This green robed angel can always be found

in a sea of optimism unbound,

wanting thoroughgoing love to be held

in tandem with faith, standing parallel.

Baruchiel - The Angel With Power Over Strife

Baruchiel’s power can bring peace to men,

but men must be taught of truce, only then,

he’ll help bloodless parlay to the fore,

show great things good terms have in store.

Artistry

Painters paint heavens.

Singers

rattle the sky.

There is art to be found,

systematically,

within every heart.

And across the vault,

each hope shines as a star.

Exalted Tumbling

From the hand, up the arm,

words creep upon a page.

She, whose face is void of expression.

Having left nothing to a part of the all,

except an artificially devised

fountain of forms,

of memories and a series of

exalted ideas which today do not ring true.

As the final stroke of a clock sounds,

and the golden flame burns out,

feel now the silence.

Nothing worth saving,

her legacy beyond honor.