boy next door

white toyota
black eyebrows
daily petting the cat that lingers
outside your door
beer cans stacked
like you're trying to touch the sky
boyish tenderness
in a stony heart
what happened
to you?
for one so young
your face is very
worn

peace of art

fear flickers on
your face
like a flame in a
cave
branches lick the windows
we huddle
tied together by a
mutual
marriedness
frightened by the unknown
timid
you step out the door
i follow dragging books music paintings not
wanting to
abandon the arts
we face the storm
entwined,
confined to
each other's hearts
begin another
adventure bearing
candles
scribbling on canvas
in a dark
forgiven
world

love whisperer

little girl
please don't cry
a big God loves you
died for you
abides with you
little girl
please don't fade
a big world hates you
berates you
debates you
but
at the sound of a prayer
He'll be there
in the shadows
whispering
love
you thought it the wind?
God played with your hair
wants to share
his utmost care
with you
little girl

strangers' shadows

whyte avenue, a land of scintillating smells and ringing bells of innocence. last night under stolen stars we drove its twinkling lanes, past the funky pickle and monkey island, the tattoed arms and legs and begging souls with their cans for clinking change. the blind man and his obedient dog, the street person selling street people's poetry, smiling with gaps in his teeth like the world could knock him over but he wouldn't care. we'd been to the Wok Box, where we ate expensive asian food looking out over a park full of people. and you told me of the greek island where cobblestone streets and horsedrawn buggies, crowded by shops and culture, still exist. as we cruised away we saw a girl jamming to her own tunes, head bopping, mouth moving, and i ached and laughed and inwardly decided to be more like her. life is experienced within the shadows of strangers' influence.

colourful character

lady with
egg-shell blue hair
five watches strapped to
skinny wrist
eyes darting
always keeping time
standing
knuckles white, bruised
gripping the bus seat
pastel green skirt
swinging
we stop, you descend
in your purple shoes
enter
bloomingdales
no doubt to buy another
pink hat
making three
piled precariously atop your
curls
don't leave me,
my mystery
muse
i too want to
live in
colour

infant dreams

motherhood. bearing life and borrowing strength, daily. you with your tender crow's feet and gentle laugh lines, how did you raise me? with my controlling little self needing everything. i tremble in your footsteps; you've left me a lineage of love i don't want to destroy. little ones, in need of so much. is my heart large enough to bear years of ache? i'll cry if they fall, bruise tiny knees, scratch the flesh i made... their eyes will scare me, tell me about myself, about this world i've brought them into. guns and roses, acid rain, battle fields and overpopulation... dare i bring them here? climbing the old, blood-stained hill, i crawl to the cross and lay my infant dreams before you. take care of my children.

heaven's canvas

monday morning... the moon is shining, white sliver in charcoal sky. the start to another adventure which i wearily embrace. longing to be little again, to have mother make my lunches and father teach me right from wrong. such a big, bad world. i shiver and scan the headlines -- 18 year old shot dead on birthday. another day to make things brighter in a world of darkness. the sun bleeds across the sky, bashfully beautiful. take these feet, make them walk, take my mouth and help me talk i whisper to the painter of the heavens. help me believe. breathe hope into the grey-black gutters of our world.

the weakerthans

this sandy-haired, round-eyed girl is no bigger than a flea. i don't want him to think i'm weak she tells me, flexing her tones and stressing the word weak. negative word. fragile, delicate, dependent ... we are trained to think a steel heart implies strength of character, yet when is there time to lapse? to be vulnerable? i only get stronger when i recognize my weakness, i tell her, and chop another onion. the tears spurt unwillingly. am i being weak? i ask. i guess so. i'm also being honest. my body recognizes the need to cry. it's healthy. you have to be strong in order to undo the latch to your own heart, and let the floodgates swing wide. we sit down and eat. am i being weak by admitting i'm hungry? i query, watch this tiny frame of a girl fill her insides with food. perhaps, but it takes strength to admit we need something, to recognize we can't do life alone. she nods, the bread bulging out her cheeks like a chipmunk, and smiles. vulnerability, unrealized.

sister annie

hazy afternoons in your backyard, golden sun, reading shakespeare, writing sonnets ... crimson leaves, country walks, yellow school bus, sister annie. my first taste of beer, spitting it out, you laughing. boys, secret codes, you on the piano, making miracles with your fingers. fiddle dances under the stars, weddings, him taking you away, taking care of you, me missing you. now you're living your dream, pennsylvania lady, with horses and farm house, and i'm living mine. we talked about this, remember? late night ramblings about wide porches, rocking chairs, and growing old. let's fill this gap between us with tears and sail across. our romeos can follow. together we'll tackle this thing of a world with girlish whims and unconquerable quests. together we'll be fine.

bursting balloons

face flushed
eyes shining
in hand, a
red
balloon
hair tousled
little boy with
brand-new
toy
running in the sun
the darts in my
eyes
burst his
prize and
that little boy
with his
big red
toy
deflated
wrinkled up
into a sad old
man
who sits and
stares out his
window

washed clean

lightening licks
the earth
we
lie in the dirt
tempting the storm
thunder growls lion-like
in my ear
apple tree's branches
spider-like
against a green-grey sky
grains of sorrow
dissolving
arms
embracing,
encasing this glimpse of
something good
mouths laughing, catching
water
playing like the kids we
once were
marriage
mending
in this
miracle weather

train ride

it's four a.m. and my mind is a track carrying box-cars full of worry. do not be anxious, my God tells me. focus on focusing your thoughts, my husband adds as he curls me up into a ball and quietly snores in my ear.

you're the conductor, and i'm the caboose. we're about to derail, i feel. where will you stay? your young, quiet feet patter around our house, i cannot sleep knowing you have no one but me. why me? who's going to minister to my needs? i am selfish at so late an hour, water streaming down my face in tired torments. do not be anxious, my God reminds me, gently stroking my brain into dull submission and slumber. He assumes your position as conductor. and you keep pitter pattering through life, one lonely day at a time.

rapunzel of sorts

red hair
drips off her
head
chestnut eyes like a foal
wild
daring
she
crouches
smothering her sketchbook
with lead
nimble fingers gripping the pencil
till
it breaks
the picture comes alive under her
force
artiste extraordinaire
she whispers
kisses the canvas
stumbles to the window
lets down her
hair
scales
the tower
of power
and
proves herself
to the
people

old man

why do you smile so? gliding across the street in your little go-cart, silver hair glinting, you look like a king. we've all stopped for you. but even when it's time to leave, i keep watching as you roll out of my life and into others'. you lift your cane, wave at a curly-haired woman whose eyes are bright. you even start to whistle, i can tell by the way your mouth puckers up. you look up at the sky like it's yours. the cars are honking now. i better go. is it wrong to want to be old?

dealing with chaos

in a perfect world i wouldn't have to scream she told me as her consequences caught up with her. they wrapped around her like a black scarf and pulled her down into reality. she reminded me of edward munch's 'the scream,' swirling colours a tiny person being swallowed up by her own noise. sometimes we just have to sit and let ourselves be quiet, i caution, and then proceed to yell at the top of my lungs. my own masterpiece -- 'the yell.' perhaps i'll paint it. that's easier than following my own advice.

nicky cruz

your
story
made me cry
shy you were yet bold
to share of
miracle-moments
made me
dance on
graves of cynicism
re-plant flowers of
faith
believe
in what i'm
always
saying
outside, you were big
inside, tiny boy
enter: hillbillly
preacher
skinny, obedient
you strangled
beat
left him to die
his bloody lips
whispered Christ's
love
tiny boy broke
inside
hallelujah

homeless habiibi

habiibi (arabic for sweetheart) you're all heart with no home. why will no one take you? i'm holding you protecting you from cocaine addicts, abusive boyfriends you claim to love and begging God to recreate you, resend you to earth to a better family, a better life. no one deserves to be abandoned. my eyes bleed onto your bruises your pale face. dark eyes pierce the doorway. let me go, she tells me. she has nowhere to go. stumbles to her feet, hair matted, eyes glazed, unsure of why she's still alive. why does no one want me? she rips into the air like a baby flailing and then falls. i'm here to pick you up. always will be.

victory dance

i win breakfast in bed! she laughs and then breaks into a victory dance unlike any other. my mother in law. arms in the air, feet sliding this way and that, hips wiggling she is a ballerina on stage, a hip hop dancer in the streets, elaine off of seinfeld, the most beautiful woman on the front of People's magazine. zany, witty, wild she flaunts her win with a wiggle and a laugh, her children groaning and pretending to avoid the sight. a 50-year-old woman dancing with herself, devoid of self-consciousness, aware only of her joy. i study her moves, hoping one day i can fling off these chains and claim my victory.

rags and riches

you're so beautiful, standing there in your stitched-up clothes and torn stockings. holding your cardboard sign saying you want to go somewhere, anywhere, just so you can feel lonely in a different place. you're so lovely with your young hands and old face, whittled away by worry and weed. with your humble way of existing. what's your story? why do you look at me that way in my pink porche heading to my mansion where i bathe in money and music? i'm just admiring the way you have nothing. who are you to make me feel so ugly? why am i crying?

big eyes

you watch me
like i'm this magnetic
muse
a marvel of man
don't you see the
scars?
jagged edges?
big eyes
stare in wonder at the
miracle
of life
in me
tears leak
i take your hand
we stumble
along
stop to smell the
roses
scorn the
thorns
behold
the beauty of
redemption
(thanks for
believing)

brokenness

i'm a cracked flower pot
on the edge of a
window
sill
hoping to bear
a flower
expecting
at the same time
to
fall

slaying monsters

are some people just better at being adults? he asks me,
standing in his blue-plaid pajamas looking bewildered.
we swivel our heads, stunned at this grown-up life --
like we're on a ride at Galaxyland being shot up into space, lightening speed.
i take his hand. we stand in silence. the warm air of our lives envelops us;
adulthood is just another monster to fight,
this love our weaponry.
we have something special, he whispers.
leads me down the hall to bed.
there in the dark we hold each other. terrified. together. forever young.

snafu

"a confused, muddled, or messed-up condition or state / a mistake or blunder / in utter confusion or chaos; messed up / mess up, bungle, play havoc with / a word that describes us all."

welcome ...

to our humble abode, i tell them. quickly hang another garland of berries on the front door, straighten the bamboo mat, usher them in. warm air melts their frozen skin, october chills already threatening to whitewash nature's mosaic of colours. toasting bottles of homemade beer we light some candles and set to decorating our pizzas, laughter mellowing out any initial tensions, easing out the social wrinkles. like a second date, we're falling into a groove of natural sharing while cautiously stepping around certain topics like cracks in the sidewalk. glasses clink, tea is brewed, chairs tip back, another beer for the boys, another topic to digest. the clock ticks lazily, unnoticed until the moon pulls us with magnetic rays into the night sky and we stand, waving goodbye to our new friends. God is good.