The River

Setting sun
beyond the river bend
purple waters
transform into black

incessant moon
stands watch, beholding
the shimmering river
below, never to darken
it's grace.

peace waits for death

There are days..
that this world is cruel

days when ugly becomes man
driven by endless greed and power

where does it stop?
every job, every task
an endless drive for more

every word,
step made to cut
the other down

no apology
no conscience
empty headed
nothingness

where does it end?
in death, i am told

what a sad state
for mankind
that peace
waits for death.

fishing with children

a sunny day
dream filled
finally armed
with fishing poles
and bate

on a lake
some row
some wait
on a pier

and here
we sit
and watch
for the smallest move

too long for a child
reel it in
release again
and again

no catch today
but a promise
kept
on a beautiful day

key west

Which day will find you dreaming
light with wonder
in the balmy air

Slow in your step and easy
worries fleating
without a care

take me there
take me there

a moment

a moment
changes your world
one small move
a choice
an action

and here you are

it just is
and what you do
from this moment on
each step taken
every word spoken

will tell your story.

when i didn't know you

when i didn't know you
there was a constant wonder
of what might be
gazing out windows
with a sureness
unknown even to me

when i didn't know you
i didn't know love
lost in common faces
representations
of ideal lives
in everyday places

when i didn't know you
the whole grew deeper
dividing truth and lies
left to find
the one part of me
that never dies

when i didn't know you
i was missing the best part of me.

a quiet bully

There's a line he crosses
always
moving forward
into my space
as if he owns it
three years since the end
of our vows
and still
he pushes -
a quiet bully

i'm learning
to keep the
stop signs handy.

Sensing

I poured the wine in the dark
trusting i woud sense
when to stop
taking the glass in hand
i walked slowly into light
and saw how close
i came to overflowing.

Let the Lover Be - Rumi

Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy,
absentminded. Someone sober
will worry about things going badly.
Let the lover be.

- Rumi

desert rain

desert rain come and pound my senses
flow through my beaten brain
and wash all thoughts away

it is the soul's fire smothered
by duty

is there no mercy
for self?

near-wreck

in an instant
it happens
instinct takes over
and I jerk the wheel
to the left
anything to get away
from the large blue flash
converging upon me
from the next lane

this is rt. 66
this is my daily commute
and all the other drivers
that share this highway

blue flash minivan
no, i didn't honk
i was too amazed
we made it

without colliding
in the midst of cars
and concrete
and people
like us.

i think i'm growing

You just got to love Raffi
"I think I'm growing"
Raising children,
singing Raffi songs
I'll never forget

Now, at 40,
I think I'm growing
This week, I've been
sretched beyond what
I thought was possible

years ago, I would have
defended, I would have cried
I would have retreated.
Not now

In the last two days
I've been verbally attacked
by others
and handled it with grace

I've worked 3 full-time jobs
in 24 hours a week
I've been a mentor,
a friend, a mother,
a lover, a coach, a daughter,
and more

here i sit
quietly content
next to my man

together, we are stronger
than alone
together, we are one
together, we are home.

Rain on me

dark, drizzly night,
rain on me
under tall trees
stetching to the sky
limbs forming thin ovals
against the backdrop
of this black dark night

its raining harder now
yet the trees stand tall
unwavering
towering
powerful in their stance

rain on me
for i feel as tall
as the trees

rain on me
as my limbs stretch
beyond what is known

rain on me
for i am thirsty for
what is pure

rain on me
in my own backyard

The wrong fit

Wiggling, laughing, smiling
A charmer since birth
Contanstly curious
moving, investigating
Splashing louder

We can't wait for you to talk
to walk to run
to taste to know
And then it begins
the taming of this unbridled joy

Now at nine, your wiggly body
doesn't fit in the rigidity of school
your silliness brings frowns from adults
and your talking a stern finger
another warning

He's distracted
He doesn't pay attention
He talks to much
He's got the obvious signs

So we sit in this small office
trying to discern the severity
the need for medication
to help you focus

This boy who builds
with legos for hours
this boy with binoculars
chasing birds among the trees
this boy sitting motionless
absorbed in a good book
this boy coming to my aid
when i first ask
this boy
now lost
because he doesn't fit
the mold of a busy classroom.

On Politics

I once believed
there was a truth
I stood for
My soles are worn
from months of walking
this promise
My voice hoarse
from speaking
my convictions
my family fragmented
from the burden
of my vision

I once thought
it was all worth it
until tonight
this vote
this moment

Rationalization caresses
my conscience
words from colleagues
swirl in my head

enough
to push
me
there, here
to this turning point

I drive for hours
home
on these familiar roads
feeling half a man in this darkness

alone

I made choices to get elected
I made others to stay elected
When will I make choices
for the people
who brought me here?

The 17-Year Itch

I wrote this in 2004. For some reason, it's my husband's favorite...

The 17-year cicada emerges from the earth
ascending to the trees, to the sky
All for the purpose of finding one mate
a moment of passion before they die

I awake to the sounds of their frantic call
The voice of the males' desire
Which female will choose to engage
and set his soul on fire?

Their dizzying bodies crash against me
Their dead bodies scattered on my path
Some fly aimless as if drunk on love
Some still desperate for love's bath

Many complain about these pesty creatures
Yet I'm enchanted by their quest
Their continuous buzz excites me
And I long to reach their crest.

a dreadful night

I glance at the clock
each time she cries for me
it comes in 15-minute increments
the clammy pale face
wih sunken eyes
looks at me with desperation
"goodbye, Mommy" she says
sure that death is upon her
red flushes accross her face
as her body wretches out this sickness
i rub her back or hold
her warm hand in mine
until exhaustion overcomes her
and we both begin to drift
only to be awaken
15 minutes later.

Molly Ivins Shook the Walls With Her Clarion Call

Molly Ivins Shook the Walls With Her Clarion Call
By Maya Angelou
Special to The Washington Post
Friday, February 2, 2007; Page C01


Up to the walls of Jericho
She marched with a spear in her hand
Go blow them ram horns she cried
For the battle is in my hand

The walls have not come down, but they have been given a serious shaking.

That Jericho voice is stilled now.

Molly Ivins has been quieted.

The writer and journalist, dearly loved and admired by many, hated and feared by many, died of cancer in her Texas home on Jan. 31, 2007.

The walls of ignorance and prejudice and cruelty, which she railed against valiantly all her public life, have not fallen, but their truculence to do so does not speak against her determination to make them collapse.

Weeks before she died, she launched what she called "an old-fashioned newspaper crusade" against President Bush's announcement that he was going to send more troops to Iraq.

She wrote, "We are the people who run this country. We are the deciders. Every single day every single one of us needs to step outside and take some action to help stop this war. We need people in the streets banging pots and pans and demanding, 'Stop it now!' "

Years ago there was a fundraising gala for People for the American Way in New York, and Molly Ivins was keynote speaker. I was a loyal collector and serious Ivins reader, but I had not met the author. Another famous journalist, who was to have introduced her, had his flight canceled in a Southern city. Norman Lear, founder of the organization, asked me to introduce her. I did not hesitate. I spoke glowingly about Ms. Ivins for a few minutes, then, suddenly, a six-foot-tall, red-haired woman sprang from the wings. She strode onto the stage and over to the microphone. She gave me an enveloping hug and said, in that languorous Texas accent, "Maya Angelou and I are identical twins, we were separated at birth."

I am also six feet tall, but I am not white. She was under 50 when she made the statement, and I was in my middle 60s, but our hearts do beat in the same rhythm. Whoever separated us at birth must know it did not work. We have been in the struggle for equal rights for all people since we met on that Waldorf Astoria stage. We have laughed together without apology and we have wept when weeping was necessary.

I shall be weeping a little more these days but I shall never forget the charge. Joshua commanded the people to shout and the walls came tumbling down.

Molly,
I am shouting,
With two voices,
Walls come down!
Walls come down!
Walls come down!

Poet Maya Angelou is the author of "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings."

Grandmommy

I wrote this in November, 2006 for my Grandmother's 90th b-day...

Come, I'll bounce you on my knee
Or lift you high upon my feet
Then briskly walk us to the sea
If you can walk as fast as me.

Along the way we'll stop and greet
The passserbys on the sreet
And maybe they'll step in stride
And walk with us along the tide.

It doesn't count unless you reach
The end of the boardwalk along the beach
And touch the wooden railing there
To the other end, no time to spare!

And look, I see another friend
You go, I'll catch you at the other end
And then we'll finally head on back
Where most of us will hit the sack!

How does she do it? We all say.
Walking fast every day.
Cooking, cleaning, knitting, caring
Sometimes I'd say she's somewhat daring.

Yet this energy has blessed us all.
Hundreds of cards adorn her hall
A testament to the reach of her love
and to her undying faith in God above.

I've learned so much from her grace
Her hard work, commitment and quickened pace
Most importantly, I've learned to care
About more than myself, and about being fair.

I think I speak for all today
As we wish my Grandmommy, "Clara", a Happy 90th Birthday
Thank you for touching all of our lives
And for baking the most delicious pies!

winter's sun

Bare branches reaching up and accross
a tangled mass against the pale blue sky
fragile limbs sway softly in the cold air
while sturdy trunks disappear
in the snow-dusted earth
only the shadows cast
hint of any warmth
from a winter's sun.