common history…

an unmarked grave
to man’s frailty
and with
all the posturing
of mankind
this will be
his final posture
no one
will bring flowers
the tears
shed that day
will have dried
and been blown
into the sea
the dust
will be caught
upon the wind
and carried
into the fields
where new seeds
will be planted
for the occupants
of tomorrow’s

spring ritual….

oh how spring
brings forth from poets
a multitude of verses
a never-ending array
of love lost
and then regained
friendship betrayed
and then forgiven
like an army of prodigal sons
birth and rebirth
more flowers than in a monet painting
colorful rituals of every sort
say but one
removal of the christmas training wheels
although not practiced everywhere
it is one which these poets have forgotten
and like all rituals it has its steps
first to ride upon the softest grass
assuring no injury to the child
leaving only injured ants in its wake
no unexploded ordinances here
unlike the fields in vietnam
next moving to the cruel street
father racing beside his child
legs pumping and out of breath
protecting his child from his past pain
like a parent in beirut, afghanistan, iran
or east la
where learning to ride is not an option
finally at the child’s insistence
the father is banned to the bay window
watching his child challenge the world alone
with coffee cup in hand
still running beside his child
and with his first fall
the first scars upon his heart
as the child continues to confront the world
the father cannot end his virtual race
and with each fall
another scar

Poem inspired by comments from Mirella McCraken


her body was lying in state
dressed in her favor sunday clothes
and i hear my mind say
      something’s wrong
      it’s not the same
             i say
      she’s not smiling
              oh…those lovely flowers
              look here’s some from aunt liz
look at it
      something’s missing
              i say
       dear god what could it be
              i understand
              i’m not a child
but still there’s something