The Elements of Style

Words formless and without
substance that gift of perception
given by the author when placed
just so the reader, those from who
we beg and plead, on our knees
on our knees waiting
for the light to come on.

Molding stanzas now and again
pinching, caressing, pulling
forcing that etherial idea
down into the atmosphere
like a giant hot air balloon
that has lost it's sand bags.

Gathering stanzas to place in
perfect time and rhyme
reminds me of that pimply faced boy
at the pet store
The one who carries the miniature net
and chases rainbow fish for six thirty-five
an hour or a day or a month
can bring a poem if I simply
sit and sift and patiently knit one
pearl two, just like Grandma
in her house coat waiting
for the light to come on.



For Lindsey

Restoration

I can recall, dimly, in the echoing
empty halls of memory
the restoration of that heart, so broken
and worn beyond usefullness.

I remember you sitting there, touching me
in that comfortable way while tears
and grief passed through your body
like a train bound for war.
Tears flowed onto my lap in anguish
your face contorted expressing the
pain I could not
yet lay hold of.

I can hear your words to me that day
as I stood stoic, like the oak
straight and unyeilding
you asked, "Why is it that you stand alone?"
The lightning bolt of your words
striking that pulpy, fleshy center
and I split in two
Death raining all the while.

I can still feel the pressure of the water
in my ears as I sank beneath the ocean waves
of fear that left me breathless
grasping for a hand or a heart
calling out for help, screaming out for help,
desparate then for help.

I do not know the moment I was born
or the place where I came to find rest
and peace of a sort
Walking now running now
I know only the distant echoes
of the Carpenter's hammer in the empty halls of memory
and the restoration of a heart that was so broken
and worn, beyond usefullness.