The rose is
planted in the
ground
looking like a
bundle of sticks.
It begins to branch
and puts on a gown
of leaves and thorns.
In the beginning
of summer it
begins to bud,
opening slowly to
the perfection
of the full blown
bloom.
In the fall,
the rose does not
produce perfection
anymore.
Man cuts the gown
of the bush back
to sticks leaving
enough branches
for the promise
of next summer's
blossoms.

© 1985*

Tubes everywhere. Some clear
with delicate wires inside.
Dark ones, can't see through.
Great big black icecream cone
with grey icecream licked
down almost flat. Daddy says,
"Don't touch."

Hammers, screwdrivers, saws,
different shapes and sizes;
on the floor, in the chairs,
everywhere. Don't know what
some of these things are but
I know,"Stay over there,
don't touch."

Mahogany shining smooth
with a hole for the icecream
cone and lots of little holes
for the buttons that will make
moving pictures on the icecream
someday soon. I want to see
what Daddy's made and he says,
"Come touch."

© 1987*

© 1987*

going without something to eat
while your body cries hunger
the score of the ballgame doesn't
matter when you forgot who's playing
wadded papers from false attempts
on the floor around the basket
studying is useless when you
can't remember the last sentence
enormous effort not to let your
mind gracefully drift into sleep

and it's only noon

© 1986*

Lightening flashes, thunder
cracks through the air.
Rain spatters upon the window.
Leaves bend under the weight of
heavy drops. Smell the dusty
freshness of summer rain.

© 1987*