Death, a poem

we treat death as a thief
and we name it so
death is not a thief

death is a gift
a field of flowers
where we shall dance
on feet in wonder

death is a magician
transforming us
into our better selves

Portrait

In honor of National Poetry Month

Black marks on a page,
Outline of her face,
Dark eyes and a smile,
Hair cut to style,
A slender neck,
A dress ankle length,
Her hands upon her lap
Holding a school boy’s cap,
And a rosary too,
Its beads tapping her shoe.
With one last streak,
The portrait’s complete
Of her younger then
In the remember whens.

Dirt on the Soles of My Shoes

In honor of National Poetry Month

I got a bit of dirt
On the soles of my shoes.
Been trav’ling around.
Paying them dues.
Preacher hounding me
‘Bout what I do wrong.
Got a bit in his teeth
Of hell fire and brimstone.

I know I’m a sinner,
Sinning’s in my blood
Just like Old Man Noah
Who rode out that flood.
He was a drinking man.
The Bible tells us so
He could drink those boys
Under the table and floor.

There’s the hangover and there’s the hang under.
There’s the lightning and there’s the thunder.
There’s the magic and there’s the wonder.
But the promised land’s way over yonder.

Well, I take my blues
And I take ’em straight.
Not on the rocks.
I’m in a bad state.
A cat chasing his tail
Running ‘round and ‘round
Got no place fast.
I’m everybody’s clown.

You got heartaches,
Heartache’s my name.
If there’s a gray cloud
Bound to be some rain.
I never seem to learn.
I’m a sad sack case.
As plain as the tears
Running down my face.

There’s the hangover and there’s the hang under.
There’s the lightning and there’s the thunder.
There’s the magic and there’s the wonder.
But the promised land’s way over yonder.

If Jesus

For Easter.

If Jesus met me on the street,
would I shake His hand?
If Jesus knocked on my door,
would I let Him in?
If Jesus came to me naked,
would I give Him some clothes?
If Jesus sent me an angel,
would I think him just any Joe?

If Jesus asked me to dine,
would I come to His feast?
If Jesus needed a friend,
would I be an acquaintance, at least?
If Jesus offered to wash my feet,
would I remove my shoes?
If Jesus wanted my loneliness,
would I give Him my blues?

If Jesus gave me a cross,
would I be satisfied?
If Jesus asked for the truth,
would I be the one who lied?
If Jesus asked me to forgive,
would I turn the other cheek?
If Jesus were ever to return,
could I say I was a man of peace?

The Curse

In honor of National Poetry Month.

“Be good to Sylvia. Always,”
Mrs. Plath said to son-in-law Ted.
It was a curse he carried
with him when the tide dragged him
out to sea and back toward home,
a firmer ground from which he drew
his inspiration, and Sylvia did not.
When she died, he became a man drifting,
drifting on a cold-hearted sea
of bad press, his lifeboat leaking.
It was the curse.
Funny how words can wound.
He took them in
day in and day out. One day
his boat sank, and he too died,
the words on his gravestone always to be:
“Ted Hughes,
the man who killed Sylvia Plath,
Poet.”