Issue 7 – Poetry

She has toiled, she has wept, 
Mornings of cold and fatigue,
She has bit odds and awoken,
Yet today, she smiles,

There is nothing to say—
this moment, now, with you,
is so fragile, so transient that
it can only be known but
never expressed or spoken . . .

She is an artist
Painting pictures

Shiny wire rims encircle wrinkled eyelids,
pinkish chiffon veils gliding across Sycamore orbs;
cornflower blue sclera injected with burgundy webs,
underlined by ashen puffs of fatigue.

The contents are “time-sensitive.”
I slit the envelope with my finger.

Gray skies spread above us like lace
on a communion tray.
Inside, they fed my father

He carved a spot of skin today, and then another,
The slice all stained to find the danger,
In search of foes, to map the border.
Just a bit more, he dug in deeper.

What moves, shore or ship,
when souls sail, blinking,
heartbeat . . . a blip,
yonder fog engaged,

muted by seas

I find myself starting to repeat
the names, like Mom did,
from the top, so she could get
to the one she wanted.

Cough cold, fever, and chills
Here’s the season of growing medical bills

LOVE is not for everyone.
Avoid LOVE if you are not prepared, as this may cause a sudden, unsafe drop in blood pressure.

No one will know, now, or care
that, in your rush this morning,
you grabbed one dark blue sock
and one black in the rumpled sock drawer.

A week ago, you thought the next breath could be your last.
The family and friends were buzzing with worry
and all visited you in such a scurry.
The nurses and doctors fixed you—quite fast! 

I sometimes just felt the reds and yellows randomly cutting through the greens, but without thinking, without appreciation, without judgment.