Apple trees of a forgotten orchard Bear for no one ten barrels worth of fruit Years without children playing in this yard No net to gather, no rifle to shoot With armies of birds perched from end to end In combat as they pecked each other’s eyes On heavy branches where laden boughs bend Only the quick and strong collect the prize High above rotting apples on the ground Bruised by the fall and blemished, near to burst Where worms make a feast of this mealy mound If the rodents

Grieving for herself and her baby killed Dead child of a child lays her head The flesh she carried on the table dead The empty uterus, the blood she spilled A womb now colder than the tile floor. It won’t be long before her sixteenth year Only the boy knows, no one else is here. The nuns have seen this many times before But now it is too late to change her mind. She might have had his eyes, her shade of hair The nurses recognize that vacant stare. Rocking herself, the gown op

Frightened at midnight little children cry Listening to the rain and thunder pound When large branches crack free from limbs and fly And leaves breaking off branches spin around When trees too are uprooted suddenly Helplessly they are pitched by brutal wind The roots exposed to their mortality On graves of ruptured earth, laid and unpinned Where small creatures are running for cover On sodden earth, their fur soaked in the rain For hide-a-ways, small harbors for shelter That

The hour of magic when two worlds meet Half dreaming, still asleep, almost awake Alerted by a voice before daybreak Like one who sleepwalks weaving on her feet. I have a pen, the rest is mystery Pieces have not begun to fall in place. With what intention do I fill the space? After thinking my finger strikes a key First letter of the word in my mind’s eye And followed by the next. To get it right Allow me in the dark a little light. Choosing one then another will reply A fit

He whittles on a wooden stick The faces coined by memory The virtues, solid as a brick And not refined self-consciously. When drawing a map of the hill Of horse sense and the human heart He gathers essence as it spills And annotates it on his chart. He boils down this country charm With stories gathered far and wide Tending to his own working farm In the seat of the countryside. The bounty of his orchard falls At the foot of a mountain top Where solid men repair stone walls A

The television is set to the news With a blizzard in Rochester this year A reporter says the wind is severe. Sitting there, snow powder still on my shoes, The pea-green walls no one should get used to And the unnatural light no window Let in, strange faces I will come to know Some more than others, those just passing through And the same patterns I will recognize The same wadded tissues they leave behind Admittance papers after they are signed Will become easy to categorize A

“I hate you!” I yell back for no one’s sake My mother, “I had more than I can take!” Exploding from the kitchen with a knife My father quickly grabs it from his wife. “It has gone too far Ag! This is crazy!” She shatters the storm door instead of me Her fist goes through the glass, she’s wild eyed My father is afraid of suicide “I created her so I can kill her!” I try to bolt, he blocks me in the door He lets her in my room “You little whore! ‘Take off your underpants so I c

It is a child who mutilates the rose A child who strips rose petals from the stem ddddddddHer sticky hands wrapped around all of them. I sometimes wonder where her anger goes A bane of secrets wrapped around her throat Imploding without blood stains on her coat. It is a child refusing to confess The cache of thorns presently in her palm She knows better than to disturb the calm To speak of what is safer to suppress Too young to argue in her own defense Or trust that truth wil

I hear the doorbell ring lifting my eyes Two policemen are waiting at the door Blue uniforms and badges, nothing more The kind of fear policemen recognize. They attempt to alleviate my fear. I show them to the kitchen where we speak “We reopened a murder case this week.” And they apologized for stopping here. “We called a psychic to help with this case ‘Sometimes it helps, and she mentioned your name ‘That you might know something. And so we came.” They passed the photograph

It is darkest when water slaps the rock More than a suggestion less than a lie Approaching me instantly back to die Tossed underneath another frothy smock Fantastic waves curling over the sand Crashing down over the feet of a fool Again and again relentless ridicule. The wave forms a peak unable to stand And I am devoured under its weight Redeemed by nothing, lies and fallacy. I met denial when hope welcomed me Too early on it when it was much too late.

Her old-fashioned hands were passed on to me She cupped them like a nest for me to feel Then took mine in hers affectionately Whispering “Our hands were made to heal.” Promising this as Nana touched my eyes Letting large fingers wander to my cheek I wanted to ask “Will I be as wise?” But stopped myself too embarrassed to speak. She heard me without my daring to ask And smiled, keeping the answer to herself Then I put small hands to a given task What I wanted to know would sho

I would have said a few words, just a few When sitting beside mallards at the pond To touch the stream of water minnows drew Like quicksilver to an unknown beyond The flash of fins to some familiar place Curtains of algae obscuring the sun. My heart halted as they received their grace Excluded where the stream was overrun. I would have spoken, it was very deep There were walls I could never penetrate Buried inside the place where longings creep I never could completely unders

I will take what I can and then no more When I must rest from plenty for a night Give me the apple, I will save the core Great is desire, slim, the appetite. Leave the cornucopia, leave the tray A sampling relieves hunger and thirst Sweetness is tasted later in the day When I digest what had been given first.

The in and out, the swinging door The turnstile when he hoped for more Some clippings from the daily news Dried ink on the soles of his shoes Writing a while his mind goes blank He has the dreamless night to thank The up and down of restless sleep The same tea bag he used to steep To stay awake at his table Attempting to but unable He taps his foot soothing himself He puts his pen back on the shelf And drags his body up the stairs The poorly written story tears Tossing it in

To others Frank is a little old man With his face nearly pressed against the page The others laugh but I do what I can There is something special in him, my rage Roars quietly.  They could try on his shoes A little while but his battle is not With them and I know this.  Like a recluse He withdraws from people, he does not let Them in, so I am his friend, something rare. Then I turn the pages of his sketch book With its beautiful ink drawings, his flair For railroad cars in mo

I On the third floor behind the nurse’s desk A locked man paces the plexiglass cage Within its corners he spits out his rage He wrenches his face in a way grotesque Begging for cigarettes his lips are tarred Desperate, tormented, wild and afraid And somehow naked in this sad parade Watching us watch his pain with disregard. II The elevator swallows me this night To the first floor where adults are cared for I don’t know why I’m not on the teen floor I’m crying for myself, thi

I struck gold inside the mine Unearthed it in the night Astonished by luster and shine Capturing precious light. By accident I’d broken through When mineral at dawn Radiated brilliant hue Of metal come upon.

A basketful of cat My desk won’t do without A ball of butterfat Regarding me with doubt Editing as I write With her didactic purr She thinks my words are trite While sweetening her fur. But what am I to say When she upsets the keys And all the letters play Loving that little tease Who softens her critique To purchase a caress A tigress playing meek And interfering less.

The tempo quickens in this early spring I see the birds pass seed from beak to beak. Is it not love behind this offering? A vow or promise? How are we unique In our traditions when the wedding cake Is shared that way by the new groom and bride? Is it not love? Love will not be denied In Spring or any season. Hearts may break Yet love survives in memory at least When touched by love we are somehow increased This is the meaning of our wedding feast. So much excitement rustle

The sole tells but the tongue lies silently The aging leather, scuff marks on the skin The stories of a life it sets foot in And every scrape a note of history A fraying toe, the scratches on the heel Old shoelaces after the journeys made Obligations of living that were paid The scars that run too deeply to conceal A shoe that’s grown more comfortable with time Relaxed like wrinkles on the wise soul’s face Weather worn still going at a good pace His shoes stepping on a descen