I'm Sorry I Can't Tell You What

I'm sorry I can't tell you what
I'm sure you'd rather hear,
But there's a burden in my heart
I can no longer bear.
There's an anger I must cross
Before I come to you
And make my peace with who you are,
And try your soul anew.
I know I wasn't what you wanted
When you wanted me,
A healthy, happy baby girl
You could raise easily.
I was born impaired, and you
Have never understood
That what I am is whole and fair
And beautiful and good.
You were sorry, first for me
And then for you, and wept,
But I would not be me without
The fact that I am deaf.
I am a gift to celebrate
And not a cause to grieve.
As a child this was what
I needed to believe.
I needed but a different road
To reach the common goal,
But you decided there were things
I couldn't do at all.
And rather than accept what life
Had given in its grace,
You looked at what life had withheld
And turned from its embrace.
Ah, Mother! How you injured me
By what you would not own!
To love myself I had to leave
And make my way alone,
And have my children in the course
Of what I would become,
But always, always looking back
To where I had no home.
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As My Debt Grows, So My Love Does, Too

As my debt grows, so my love does, too.
What you give I cannot half repay.
Your love for me inflames my love for you.
I can't help being moody, often blue,
Irritable, anxious, sad, and yet you stay.
As my debt grows, so my love does, too.
I know I'm lucky to have someone who
Will love me through this, day by troubled day.
Your love for me inflames my love for you.
Gifts like yours to me do not accrue.
Still, it's hard when giving goes one way.
As my debt grows, so my love does, too.
Yet unlike money, love is never due.
Its return is free, in just the way
Your love for me inflames my love for you,
A natural grace, making one of two.
And so this darkness has its own bright ray:
As my debt grows, so my love does, too;
Your love for me inflames my love for you.
As Though I Were Just Flowing, Flowing
As though I were just flowing, flowing,
Leaving not a trace behind,
Zest for life not one whit less,
However blank the roving mind;
Emptiness the space for being
In the moving moment still,
Meaning nothing more than meaning,
Each ellipse elliptical;
Reminiscences like flowers
'Ere the garden was convened,
So sweet the disconnected hours . . .
Aunt Louise
Aunt Louise lived only half on Earth,
Unable quite to leave her prior home,
Nestled in a dream, perhaps by birth,
Though loved--ah, loved!--ultimately alone.
Let her be a lesson in delight:
Of cats and restaurants and small routines,
Undaunted by the nearness of the night,
Improvising much with meager means.
She was for us an enigmatic face,
Eloquent of innocence and grace.
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Sense Makes Little Sense This Time of Year

Sense makes little sense this time of year.
Each has reason to dispense with reason.
As darkness soon descends, the festive season
Shines out upon vast rolling fields of fear.
Old customs still survive, long loved and dear,
Now bought and sold, it's true, as is the fashion,
Still filling faith with poetry and passion,
Giving to dark days a touch of cheer.
Reason says there's little cause for worry:
Electric lights have long since tamed the darkness;
Even winter doesn't wish us harm,
Taught to be a nuisance well contained.
In our hearts, though, time still stirs the slurry;
Now the dark stokes fears of nothingness.
Gifts mean more, and love becomes the warm
Sanctum in which hope can be sustained.
Shine like a Moon upon Your Field of Snow
Shine like a moon upon your field of snow!
Each buried root awaits the touch of spring
As you to your own celebrations bring
Such glory as reflects from down below.
Of mirrors let us sing, and holy light
Not ours, that yet we spread across the darkness,
'Twixt eternity and nothingness
Shining to illuminate the night.
Gardens wait, and naked stands of trees;
Rivers wait, and lakes, and frozen streams.
Eden waits to try again its dreams,
Enduring underneath our cruelties.
The world reflects your moonlight, white and still.
In what you see is what you are, though time
Needs cycles of the wind and of the will,
Granting to each sentiment its clime
So you may each sense of life fulfill.
Short Days Augur Longer Ones
Short days augur longer ones
Even as the cold
Alights upon the early gloom,
Sailing on the wind.
One feels the chill inside one's bones;
Night too soon takes hold.
So we light the festive room,
Gathering within.
Remember those long summer days,
Each a little shorter?
Evenings had a touch of grief
Trailing behind.
In each sharp turn, time delays
Not only change of weather.
Gripped by passion or belief,
Slowly we unwind.
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May Our Friendship Last Forever

May our friendship last forever;
May I sail upon your sea.
May we go through life together;
May there always be a "we."
May I be your endless sky;
May you breathe my gentle air.
May you never wonder why
Each time you look for me, I'm there.
May we be for each a smile
Like the warm, life-giving sun;
Yet when we're in pain awhile,
May our suffering be one.
May we share our special days,
The happiness of one for two;
And if we must go separate ways,
Let my love remain with you.
May Poetry Flow
May poetry flow
From your moonlit garden,
From your cool, dark fountain,
Untouched by age.
May your spirit read
The book of life
With the same enchantment
As the child within.
My Tears Are Not of Loss
My tears are not of loss
But of time too quickly gone.
I miss our days together
Even while they're going on.
I savor odd, sweet moments
When you laugh or when you smile,
Nostalgic for your presence
Though you're with me all the while.
Strange how fantasy
Can wander in and out at will,
Looking back from somewhere
That is just beyond a hill.
And so when once you leave
You will not leave me alone,
For I will have you with me
Long, long after you are home.
Of You I Know So Much
Of you I know so much, and yet
Nothing that I know
Encompasses just who you are
Or explicates your glow.
For you I would do anything,
As you would do for me.
Knowing this is breathing life:
Intense, serene, and free.
No one else so touched my soul
Deep in, with charity.
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I Am a Female of the New Times

I am a female of the new times,
Which means I really haven't any clue.
Men may carry over some belongings,
But women will be altogether new.
Each of us will have to be a sculptor
Carving madly every stage of life.
Our models must be pure imagination
Dancing in the winds of daily strife.
I'm sure there will be much I will regret:
Freedom offers vast fields for mistakes.
But I will spend my time among the mountains
Bathing in the shock of icy lakes.
I know that I don't know what I will be,
And find that total ignorance inviting.
May many of my sisters come with me!
The journey will be painful and exciting.
Dr. Barbara Rubin, in Her Consize and Pity
Dr. Barbara Rubin, in her consize and pity
Re-sent study, has shone
(Regarding mothers and daughters)
Udder facts den dose we taut
Before ye olde chain-male scholarshit was punatrated
(In due coarse) by woe men! recently re-leased from mousehold jaws,
Noing what they new were rested intervests.
Patricia
Patricia is a gentlewoman's name:
A name that's rooted in the world of men.
The modern version's not what you'd call tame,
Rough on shoes and words. But she knows when
It pays to shift her voice to feminine charm,
Choosing to take weakness off the shelf,
Intimate in order to disarm
A passing lover--and, perhaps, herself?
Sarah
Sarah knows precisely what she wants
And doesn't have a clue to what she needs.
Revising all the journals of her heart,
A modern woman springs from what she reads,
Her faces alien to the ghosts she haunts.
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Angels Are Quite Ample Cause to Cry

Angels are quite ample cause to cry,
Now, like silent movies, obsolete.
God Itself now knoweth Its demise,
Even as a plaything of the wise,
Lost to all but those that work the street,
A retiree not ready yet to die.

Angels are quite confident,
Now they are on high.
Given whom they represent,
Each appearing Heaven sent,
Let them serve God innocent

As we live and die.Angels have no ID bracelets on them.
No features glow with heavenly delight.
Given that their wings are made of feeling,
Each flying angel's given to concealing
Love's plumage like a rainbow in the night.
Shyness cloaks the halos that surround them.

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