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Dreaming of Paradise

My Old Man and me

i remember my Old Man
sitting at His office desk, writing in his journal.
i toddled over to Him,
climbed onto His lap
and He paused to help me up.
i asked Him if i could write.
He handed me a pen,
a very nice, very special pen
and showed me how to hold it.
then He held my hand
and We wrote together.
i remember the pen,
the paper, the morning,
the smell of coffee and old books.
i remember the feel of the pen
and the feel of His hand on my mine.
but i cannot for the life of me
remember what We wrote.
it’s a good thing
it’s written down somewhere.

Madam Vespucci

Madam Vespucci awoke in the land
She named after her father
And gazed across the horizon
Surveying her domain.
She had lived there many years
Had rented the land to many tenants.
As old as she was,
She was still considered young
Youthful
Sometimes even naïve
By her neighbors and allies.
She had prospered in her father’s land
She ruled supreme

She says
“Not even the King can unseat me here”

But the day is fast approaching
If not already here,
When madam Vespucci will
Notice that the morning dew on her shoes
Is made of broken tears from broken men;
That the whispering wind
Is wailing women;
That she reaps a harvest of children,
Desperate to forget
Desperate to remember.

And If she does nothing
Or else doesn’t notice
Perhaps the King will

Absurdity

Business man
proving his man-ness
Avoids bras

A frantic woman
Washing, cleaning, scrubbing hard
To prove motherhood

A dreamer
Once dreamed of dragons
cannot sleep

Waiting on the Winter Rain

It rains in the reservoir
But not a single inch downstream
And the dam I built there years ago
Still holds.
The water rises
The flood water rise
Upstream of the dam.
Downstream I am dry
And if …
When
I’m honest
I say I kind of like it that way.
Even so I go to the stone church
With the stone cross,
The same stones used to build
The dam
And I pray for rain
Rain I don’t really want.
But eventually, maybe soon
Maybe not,
But eventually the dam will fail

And then where will I be?

Mining the Fairy Ring

I’ve been working for so long
that the pen between my fingers feels more
like a pickaxe
chipping away a tiny piece of rock here and there
in search of gold that may or
may not exist.
The callouses demand I take a break
before my ink turns too red.
It is then that I discover
all the fairies that have come around me.
All the dryads and naiads and
nymphs and fauns and woodland sprites
surround me.
They call out to me, asking me to play.
It is like
a baby seeing the rain for the first time
or spinning so fast she falls.
I join them,
and they shower me in the gold
I had been bleeding for.

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