Oh Momma

This old country home is
full of husks and dead notes
muted in the dusty air.
A shell with a silver bun is in the rocker.

No Sunday dresses draped from
the line between the house and
the tree; and empty baskets
turned down on the back porch.

You have no idea when to eat
cause that triangle ain’t ringing.
You have no idea how to fold
cause you had clouds to chase outdoors.

Now the linens are yellow
and the truck is bleeding black
and negligence sure as hell
won’t bring Momma back.

A chest full of dresses are
consignment bait , and the treasures
of youth no more than obsolete.
Oh Momma, where’d you go?

No more buttery hands to salt
the ham; the coils are just tepid.
Coffee beans untouched even though
you asked for them.

It’s too late for gratitude,
and it’s too late to wash the windows.
Momma’s no more, no more.
I’m sorry Momma; may God reward you like I should.

Sunlight Vow

It’s when I turned over
to let the rays warm my back
that I made a vow to
the sun.

I would be the rock in the
brook and no matter how the waters
whittled away my shell; I would always
remain inside who I wanted to be.

The fields stretch on into
eternity and we can run through
their grasses or we can lie
in their mud.

I will run and run until my legs
are in the earth
and until the sun blazes
off beyond the horizon.

The world spills over with music
and stars that reflect in every
moment of gratitude I have
for the very breaths I steal.

The course will be rough and
the slopes will be slick, but
from the deepest chambers of my
chest I can find the strength to climb.

The Violen's Whine

Sighing windblown clouds
slither across the steel skies
who’s face has aged into a
constant downturned lining.

Thoughts come like dusty
sunbeams through my blinded
garden of avoidance.
My eyelids can’t stop the light.

My Hollywood decision only
glittered on camera.
Opening the window and thinking
it a door is a foolish exploit .

I can always lift the corners
of my cracked lips, and force
the warmth of hope to enter
but even hope needs to breathe.

I trust the road and I have faith
that the wind will land me where
I can bloom, but doubt pervades
even the stalwart drifter.

I can’t say I have a plan,
and I certainly have no
step by step instructions.
I can’t pretend I don’t feel lost.

However I think if I put out my foot…
perhaps the golden bricks will line up.