Well, since you asked,
I must admit
that, yes,
I am
a poetess.

When life goes fast
I harness it,
with some finesse
and unplanned process.

I don’t quite know
just how it comes–
sometimes my writing fingers
are all thumbs–

but I allow big Life to flow,
and, when I’ve luck,
I pick some plums,

which brings
some kind replies
from some,
who say
the presence of my work
presents to them
a sign they’re blessed,

I’ve found
I get no pass
from certain others,
who see my work as worthless drafts,
(even stuff that is,
in my own eyes,
among my best),

Such words as these
from those who protest:

“There really is
no value there–
it’s just like spitting
in the air. . .
From the life that we’re all living here,
you merely craft
a wild digress.”

Mind you,
escaping them
is this–
this work I do
is where I pour
my heart and soul,
and maybe even more
than I do into
a true and deep and loving kiss.

Which view is true?
I can’t but leave that
up for you
to choose
(for you),

but between just God and me,
(and, by virtue of this poem, you)
I’ll keep on doing what I do–

For, you see,
it seems to me,
that this is real.

It is my life
to breathe,
give out,
just as feels
natural and right. . .
just so it is with me
to write–

write words
that shape
my poetry,

and then,
what will be up to me
as a poetess,
is to drive still on
much better yet,
than if I felt desperate to pass
some rigid, qualifying, road test.

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a time to seize
a gladder day. . .

So rub your eyes,
and let out groans
as well as
weary yawns and sighs,

and stretch your sleepy
head to toes

get in your groove. . .

And move on to
that good thing
or good slew of things
that foremost moves you,

to get a fairly solid grip
on this great world
and what your very
personal power
has always
had to do with it,

to make a “really matters” day.

And, perhaps,
once you have reached your striding step,

I will meet you on your path,
and we’ll, in friendship, join our hands
as we each still walk along,
continuing strong
along our way.

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between the moons.

A new phase soon
I know is coming. . .

And, by then,
I hope
my body will be humming
and nowhere will I see those crows
who search park trash cans with their nose
to find the trove of treasures there
available for bumming.

And, unlike them,
I’d like to sing
a pretty song of offering,

and see whatever that may bring
to me and to my following,

when I do dare to be myself
and then let in
whichever wide array of things
that by my virtue and/or my fault,
or for no solid grounds at all,
will eventually be coming.

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We have things now,
gadgets, stuff,
waxy plastic paper cups,
and wonderful machines,

for which, once,
there was no knowing or know-how
to fit them in our hand or cuff–
or rashly make or think them up–
not even in our blackest nightmares
nor our dumbest dreams.

But we must bow
to the fact
we still are made of dust
when our swanky props
decide to stop,
or misbehave, or just give up–

we cry, we curse,
and even worse,
trade them in
for books and paper reams,
and wooden toys,
and outdoor play
and quiet mending
of our stressed-out seams.

And God forbid,
we remember how
to think a bit,
then guide our mind
to empty it,

and then,
a message comes to us:

Both then or now,
though each time has
its minus and its plus,

life is likely way much better
than to our
first and casual glance it seems.

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When you need it now,
but you think you cannot have it,
or else,
you think
that what you’d have to do
to get it would wreak havoc,

it’s time to feel
that poor dear part of you
that feels most tense,
and frightened, too,

and notice what will happen
if you take your hand
quite near to it,
and hover,
let tingling nerves
under your skin
its deepest wish
thus to intuit,

your calm palm
can read and feel
what is required
to help it heal,

once your inner knowing nabs it–
that sense
how it may best recover–
proceed to give it
what it needs of that,

if it should a little more,
well, then,
go on to grab it–
kneed it, pat it gently,
coax it, plead it,
like a faithful lover,

and whether
the need be
psychic, feeling, spiritual,
or perhaps some other,

Soon or later,
you will see
that the gap twixt you
and what you need
is never an eternity. . .

for it, in fact’s as close to you,
and as much a part of you,
as your own
birth brother.

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Figure out
what you like about it.

Then ditch
all small and bigger doubts,
but do it nicely
they, too
have had their benefit
in former days–
know that,
accept them as a kind of gift,
don’t flout it!–

it’s really
more than likely,
that once things weigh
more on the stuff you like
than on what wears and wrecks your day,

that’s grounds enough to make you say, “Hooray!”
and on that happy, sought-for day,
you’ll get back in the mode of life
where your general habit
becomes to seize the day– yep, grab it,
so that you sing and dance and smile and laugh
and joyfully now shout about it.

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One, two, three–
send a poem down to me. . .

Four, five, six–
blow a candle,
make a wish. . .

Seven, eight, nine—
send me breath
along with rhyme. . .

Finish off
with count of ten,

and break it loose
where it’s some use–
not just to me,
but, too, to them.

let it rest. . .

let life put me
to the test,

so I may fall
onto my knees
and pray I may
come to receive
at least
one other
verse again.

With any luck,
it will be me,
(not so much them)
to be the very first
no longer for my songs to thirst,

and thus to be
the privileged one
when enough’s
been poured
into my cup,
then gets to say,

Wait! Stop!
No more!

Because, for me,
my poetry
defines that land
that speaks what’s true,
through real life and fantasy,
that tells the tale
of where I was,
as well as where I want to be,
added to
where I am now,

which, more or less,
is where you are,
he is, she is, they are,
we are,–
I and thou–

all women, children,
rocks, trees, creatures,
germs and earthworms,
mice and men,

the tale
of the world
where I’ll emerge
to be that
yearned-for, destined star,
I came to be,
I know I am,

though I know not
how this will pass. . .

but that is now. . .

And I know
I will know

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