Art

On my beach Is a maternity room Where poems are born. As both mother and midwife I exist in the middle space; The balance Between gestating ideas And the arrival of Living words.   I don’t create truth. I painfully push it out, Cut it from my body, Wipe the blood from it, Measure its length and weight, Count its toes, Swaddle it in a blanket of words, Then lay it carefully in your arms....

Minding I was just minding my own business Just standing out there on the docks Lost in a long list of long lost thoughts Thinking of various clocks Counting the sums And cursing some And wondering when my ship would come… in Was it a crime to just stand there Was it some kind of a… sin? Staring into that particular darkness Of calm waters at dusk When something flashed Out from a splash in...

Heaven and Earth And your life in them Cathedral architecture This is who you are Don’t be fooled by the vendors In the courtyard The ticket-man at the entrance Who would sell you for a song They no longer even see you And you were made for more than merely being seen You were made to move mountains You are a masterpiece   There is a truth in every act of creation That its final...