The Pain And The Poetry

If your pain sounds pretty,
it doesn’t seem so bad.
If you use beautiful words
to describe your sadness,
people may line up
around the block to read it.
See it. Hear it. Fall in love with it.
If people don’t know better,
they might think they want it.”



Reeling in Rome

Things feel like silk over thistles.
My heart is home, snuggled down
certain…in place…and yet underneath
being home pulses pain, sighs and sorrow,
sings sadness…tambourine thistles,
timbrel thorns tipped with sting and with sticker
tipped with grief for the meanness released
in this world, cacophonous, clanging
macabre symphony wailing and keening
and it easily pierces my thin certain silk

it is here, in this place…home…
where I am snuggled down certain…
…it’s here too, crept ‘neath walls of love
we raised higher (longer) than the Dragon
and broader than the Icy Bear.

…meanness dissolved…

(become smoke from cauldrons stirred
by darkness and tended by sneaking death)

crept under, around, thru, in vapors
breathed in gasps, poisonous, choking
off health, flowing life from even the elect

(oh Mama, could it be?  Say it isn’t so!)

me and my heart met and we mingled
and made our nest in walls of love,
in temple tones, rhythms so homey
and consecrated with Sacred Love…

but cuckoos crept in on the croaking
raucous dissonant din of black crows,
under safe and the sacred, they sought to steal, thieving
and taking goodness and life, and leaving our chicks

(our heart our heart our heart our heart)

torn and rent by meanness and scratched by claws
and marred and us


hands fluttering, hands wringing…hands empty

I am reeling here, snuggled down solid
I am reeling…tipping to and fro,


as I look and long for that imagined future
we dreamed of for our dearest chicklings

(because my own, miscarried misshapen,
deadly-still and sightless in Gaza)

as I look and I long but I see only smoke
and haze, and I hear only laughing, gibbering
vaporous voices blown off cold cauldrons,
stirred by stale darkness, filled with green poison and
witches brew swirling and reeling…
reeling like me.

Mama…oh Mama do You see?
do you hear me here, bereft,
weeping in Ramah with Rachel
for my hatchlings hounded, harried,
torn and carried away
on torrents in time, in tears,

to tarry, to tarry, reeling in Rome
when they should be settled
joyous in Jerusalem
and glad singing.

Oh Mama…oh Mama

(my face slick with tears and my heart reeling in Rome).Image 001