#AmericanWriters
There is no warning rattle at the… nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer… Safe in the dark prison, I know t… light slides over the fingered work of a toothless
Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry.
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win
We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke… Stranglers to our outstretched nec… Stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that
FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,
I note the obvious differences in the human family. Some of us are serious, some thrive on comedy. Some declare their lives are lived
We were entwined in red rings Of blood and loneliness before The first snows fell Before muddy rivers seeded clouds Above a virgin forest, and
When I think about myself, I almost laugh myself to death, My life has been one great big jok… A dance that’s walked A song that’s spoke,
When I was young, I used to Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the stre… Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone
She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you?