nor suffer the throbbin’

‘tis robbin’ me life of a ball.

Oi, hush ya the drama!

ha’e no pity for that

a screech of the cat in me skull.

Oi, laugh and be light!

wipe off the frown on yer face

know yer place in the scheme of it all.

Oi, give me a hug!

‘tis you I’ve been missin’

for kissin’ your lips cures it all.

I’ve been the Tom astray

wanderin’ ‘yon ‘twixt here and away

but you are me hearth and home

and from you, me heart will never roam.

Push me Clara, push the swing
Push me Clara, so I can sing
I’m going to sing like the speckled wren
I’m going to sing ‘til they loose me from this pen

Push me Clara, push me strong
Push me Clara, it won’t be long
I’m going to run until I can’t no more
I’m going to run to a new home by the shore

Catch me Clara, catch me now
Catch me Clara and keep your vow
Don’t tell Daddy until I’ve gone away
Comfort Mommy, I’ll be back again some day.

Tie on up to Camellia as she bobs in the lee
out of sight of the village and the people to see.
If the law comes a snooping just smile a How Do,
‘cause if they start lookin’ then your freedom is through.

The captain is a fair man who runs a hard boat
and the first mate, Roger is a clever old goat.
When the weather is fine and the sails are flappin’
you won’t find a single mate down below decks nappin’.

In the belly of the boat hides the rum filled hogs
and the crew work in fear of the revenue dogs.
Takin’ three fat kegs makes your skiff float low;
pray the sea stays calm or to the bottom you’ll go.

Hoist your sail to the sky.  Make a run for the shore
where the fog and the law are dueling to score.
Dig a hole in the sand in the back of that cave
get on out before the tide or remain in your grave.

When you need a little money and the rent is due
runnin’ rum for living will help you, ‘tis true,
but the price to pay if you’re caught is high
while the hypocrite judges hold their cups to the sky.

In the morning, I will see the children off to school.
They will kiss my cheek.
They will thank me for the cookies.

In the morning, I will bid my husband farewell.
He will rush out with his coffee.
I will wave to him as he gets into his car.

In the morning, I will call an old friend.
We will talk about our families.
We will laugh about our lives and wonder.

In the morning, I will play a melody on the piano.
The cat will sit in my lap and purr.
He will chase a mouse into the basement.

In the morning, I will brew some tea.
I will sit upon my patio and watch the robins.
They will tug worms from the rain sodden grass.

In the morning, I will do the breakfast dishes.
I will make the children’s beds.
I will put away their wayward toys.

In the morning, I will walk to the café.
I will stop to smell the roses.
I will chat with the baker and pet her dog.

In the morning, a car skipped the curb.
A drunkard has taken away so many things.
I will never again do and see so much,

in the morning.

Giggles have echoes
while mice scurry in frenzy –
whisperers unseen.

Cracked portraits of men
and women in fine attire –
a sense of watching

Creaks on the staircase
moaning from chilly hallways
high shutters banging.

Girl’s dresses rotting
moth holes changing their flowers
into peppered cloth.

A crib swings squeaking
as a mobile spins above
in the room’s still air

Bats in the attic
a little boy’s hobby horse
unseen hand rocking

Where the fire starts
no one will ever be sure
now the house is gone.

If the pizza is bulblin’ and steamin’
but impatience is part of your plan
don’t complain when your mouth is in ribbons
nor rebuke when I scold you again.

If your fun is to run with some scissors
and you trip over something unseen
you’ll recall how I thrice told you not to
and I wasn’t just tryin’ to be mean.

If the dog growls when you start to tease him
and he tries to escape from a fight
don’t follow him under the table
lest he rip off your face with a bite.

If you drive with your arm out the window
and rudely gesture to people you scoff
don’t scream in such hideous horror
when a passing car lops it right off.

The hoe and the rake break our backs
while the wind steals our crop away as dust
and the maidens we married years ago
shrivel in the merciless Sun.

Our children run without shoes
while the cobra awaits — a patient fiend,
for a final misstep to give him an excuse,
and a place to sink his fangs.

Men done with labor throw dice
trading fortunes with chance
and the skilled cheater,
like the cobra, goes unseen.

Then the madam dragonfly arrives,
setting herself upon my sunburned shoulder.
The village rejoices at this sign,
for the monsoon will begin on her wings.

First comes the clouds,
roiling with potential in the distant sky,
we hurry to get the seed in the ground,
even as fat drops of rain begin to fall.

The drum, drum, drum of rain on the tin roof
while my family watches the fields flood
and we hear the monkeys in the trees
bickering in their soggy discomfort.

Lightning strikes tree and man alike,
an actinic fury unrivaled by any human act,
and then comes the thrumming sound
of the cyclone’s ladies-in-waiting — tornado!

How can we hide from something so hungry?
How can we flee along the road-turned-river?
We are spared by the fickle maiden turning –
north she goes to eat the village there.

The sunshine returns and we welcome it,
as if our past loathing never was,
while the leaves cast rainbows
with jewels as pure as a child’s soul.

Flowers grow on the roadside
and find their way into little girls’ hair
while boys tease monkeys
with mangoes on a stick.

Young women watch unmarried men,
returning from soggy fields
with muscles bulging from hard labor
and consider who they will capture.

With the first harvest comes celebration
with dancers as lovely as star-shot flowers
and even the tiger stays away,
as sorrow would bring disgrace.

There is beauty within the universe –
this shadow of the glorious past,
let us embrace what we can find
and save a portion for generations to come.

Do you have the courage to pray for all of the dead,
and not just those on your side of the trench?
I have looked into the ghastly eyes of death
and have seen myself staring back.
I have scolded death himself,
taunting him for coming so close and having missed me.
I have seen the last gasp, the rattle, the curling agony,
and I know life’s fragility.

Say a prayer for the fallen soldiers and those
caught in the talons of national eagles.
While a starving dog will never eat his master,
rulers will never hesitate to consume our young.
Lift up your eyes to heaven and don’t blame God,
because such misery is entirely our doing.

Three learned men followed a star
seeking out a King foretold by prophecy,
not a conqueror, but a prince of peace.

A child in the line of King David
born by a maiden given to the temple
kept chaste in the house of elderly Joseph.

God, seen by human eyes
touched by mortal hands
healed, fed, and blessed in return.

This Holy day is not about Santa Claus
a fiction built on consumerist greed
but about that center in time.

Saint Nicholas of Mira would grieve
if he knew of the effort men have made
to turned away from the truth.

The shoeless Bishop would weep
at Black Fridays and shopping mobs
all in the name of avarice.

Look into an infant’s face
and you will see God
unpolluted by learned sin.

Here we are opposite Adam
with Christ at the center,
are you ready to see the other end?

He weeps for his men,
those he has sworn to protect
for he has failed them.

Sithe’en hears him
and embraces his sorrow
in a green mantle.

The crows will come soon
but the dead are immortal
transformed by faerie.

Apple and pear stand
where warriors once battled
slain by axe and sword.

Armor is caught up
captured by bark and brown wood
the Green Man’s defense.

Demi-fey kiss them
dancing among their flowers
when spring brings new life.

Sidhe rest beneath
in the dappled summer sun
guarding hidden doors.

Mortals take their fruit
plucking each orb with great care
during the harvest.

Snow and biting wind
make them relive their battles
with clashing branches.

The warrior rests
after years of harvest peace
beneath his brothers.

A hundred covert eyes watch,
while mouse, mole, and wise badger,
hold court in the tumbled leaves,
and the pink sky peals away the night.

A flutter in the twitter tree,
where starlings sit on leafless twigs,
discussing the night in shrill voices,
to swirl as a school into the sky.

The lowing of a milk cow,
beyond a split rail fence,
as a girl with her pail arrives,
rubbing her sleep-filled eyes.

The last hoot of an owl,
as her disheveled chicks jostle,
soon they will fly the night
silent killers of furry smallness.

The bear shambles off to hide
from guns, dogs and bigger bears
disturbing a dozen pair of raven
who take to the sky, mocking.

The life-giving orb appears triumphant
firing rays between damp branches
and lights the heart of a rooster
who crows in jubilation for this new day.

Lemon yellow leaves long and thin flutter
around and around in a pinwheel descent.
Red maple leaves hang on the still air
generations of tiny things could live there
before a final kiss of the ground.

The sycamore paves the forest in gold plates
a nest for snuggling chipmunks and squirrels.
A long needle twirls down from the lofty pine,
an amber rosin blanket
tucking in the shrubs for the winter.

A hare nibbles on spent summer flowers,
hanging dry, still, dead – grey as her fur.
The carrots in the garden are gone,
hidden away in the cellar,
food for mouse and man.

A red vixen peers out of her hole,
between the roots of a lofty chestnut,
amid the spiked nut casings and
brown, brown waxy leaves.

The chilled air is winter wet
soon the snow will come
the land will slumber deep
robed in white, not unlike bones.

A fat bear ambles by hives a’tilt.
Beekeeper is gone as are the bees.
A rubber ball and upturned rake lay
unemployed and unwanted as so many stay.

Finches eat seeds and huddle amid branches
while a cat’s tail whisks in anticipation.
Somewhere a dog barks and breaks the peace.

The moment is lost
as the first flakes flutter down
to blanket the wood.

We dream of home’s simplicity,
of girlfriends and mothers waiting,
yellow ribbons on countless trees adorned.

Rude war interrupts our sleep,
as mortars thump in the near distance,
walking closer like an invisible giant.

A boy with a box died today.
He wouldn’t stop and put it down.
It was a doll for his youngest sister.

Sometimes I wake up shouting,
but I am not the only one with nightmares.
The lieutenant issues pills to make them go away.

I am an unwilling killing machine,
for I need the G.I. bill to pay for college,
so I can escape the ghetto my government made.

Corporal Xerxes lost his legs last week,
to a Taliban man with a grenade launcher,
the Captain had to order us to stop return fire.

I’m going to heaven when I die,
as my faith in God has not yet been shaken,
and because I have already been to Hell.