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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There's Beauty in the Barest Breath of Sunshine

There's beauty in the barest breath of sunshine,
Wasted on all but those who know despair.
Each wound turns passions just a bit more grey,
Not adding new nor taking old away,
Trading joy for something far less fair,
Yet turning grace to something far more fine.
For such, there is a winding of the way
In which a bleakness, soon become a sign,
Vividly undoes the dying day,
Evoking longings one can hardly bear.
When Life Becomes a Sea of Pain
When life becomes a sea of pain
And every moment agony
I must endure again, again,
It is a curse to have to be.
And every moment agony,
And every longing fixed on death;
It is a curse to have to be
And fight by instinct for each breath.
And every longing fixed on death
Even as I must go on
And fight by instinct for each breath,
Sailing thus, though loved, alone.
Even as I must go on,
You watch me helpless from the shore;
Sailing thus, though loved, alone,
I need you with me all the more.
You watch me helpless from the shore
As I endure again, again;
I need you with me all the more
When life becomes a sea of pain
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Thank You for Having Faith in Me

Thank you for having faith in me,
However hard it was.
An illness is compounded by
No one coming near.
Kindness can take courage when
You see what mania does.
Opening your arms to me
Unravels my own fear.
Thank You for the Heart Your Loved One Gave Me
Thank you for the heart your loved one gave me.
How strange that it should beat within my chest!
All are one, and that is what has saved me,
Nor does one truly die till all find rest.
Know that in your loved one's heart a purpose
Yet drives the ancient inborn urge to be.
Our union is not merely on the surface,
Unraveling the words that make me, me.
The Gift of Life Is Never More or Less
The gift of life is never more or less.
Either days or years are merely moments.
Reverence remains the source of bliss.
More memories do not increase remembrance.
If death must early come, then let it be
Nor more nor less than if it had come late:
A part of a much larger mystery,
Leaving wind and wisdom in its wake.
Longing is the music of our sphere,
Yearning for a time past time and space
In which all that we love is ever here,
Love everlasting, which is now our grace,
Living with us more than we can bear.
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I Pray for You and Wish I Could Do More

I pray for you and wish I could do more,
But more I cannot do from far away.
Like leaves before the wind we cannot stay,
Ripped dancing, dancing to the forest floor.
I wish I could your ailing health restore
And bring you to the strength of yesterday,
But all we mortal souls can do is pray
That God might alter what we have in store.
The beauty in our fragile life is love,
The only thing that makes the moment matter,
The golden thread that binds us all in light.
I wish, I wish I could your pain remove,
But like a wall the truth my will must shatter,
And so I send my prayers into the night.
Mental Illness Doesn't Touch the Soul
Mental illness doesn't touch the soul
Even as it punishes the mind.
None can will the wanderings of the wind,
Though winter come, and tempests take their toll.
All who suffer innocent shall find
Love waiting by the window, well and whole,
Inside the heart, where it has full control,
Longing ever, ever unresigned.
Let go your fear, and follow, then, your path,
Neither more nor less constrained than those
Embraced by gods less ruthless in their wrath.
Sing bravely down the windrows of your woes,
Savoring a grace that comes and goes.
So May a Tiny, Clever Enemy
So may a tiny, clever enemy
Wield more power than the greatest states.
Inventive, mutant, merciless murderers,
Now they plot as the world prepares and waits,
Each moment shadowed by catastrophe.
For us, the only road to victory
Lies through the valley of the sufferers,
Unified in love till death abates.
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Grace Comes with a Patina of Pain

Grace comes with a patina of pain.
Each creature must endure what it desires.
There are days one would not wish again,
When all one is, is wish till pain expires.
Expire it does in time, and will for you,
Lest it seem as though time will not run,
Lounging by the bed though dawn is due,
Sensing savagely you want it gone.
Oh, yes, we know that this is life, though we
Outlive both pain and joy. The will to be
Nothing wills but for the inner One.
Hallelujah! I'm Pregnant! Praise the Lord!
Hallelujah! I'm pregnant! Praise the Lord!
For the Lord has quickened my womb! With my husband,
Of course, and Dr. Heller, who quickened the sperm.
Which makes it no less a miracle.
For the Lord has quickened my womb! With my husband
I thank Him and science both, and bless them.
Which makes it no less a miracle
Of the Lord, Who works through the works of our hands.
I thank Him and science both, and bless them.
With science I have but a passing acquaintance.
Of the Lord Who works through the works of our hands,
Of the Lord I sing all the words in my heart!
With science I have but a passing acquaintance,
Of course, and Dr. Heller, who quickened the sperm.
Of the Lord I sing all the words in my heart:
Hallelujah! I'm pregnant! Praise the Lord!
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Diabetes Tells Us We're Machines

Diabetes tells us we're machines,
Intended to exist but for a time.
All that brought us pleasure in our prime
Breaks down to prove the metal of our means.
Eventually, all of us must die,
Though, perhaps, not quite so bit-by-bit.
Each soul must see of life the whole of it,
So as to know of death the reason why.
Death Rides with Us on Our Ecstasy
Death rides with us on our ecstasy,
Unwanted fellow traveler of joy,
Wanderer within our will to be,
Finding in our promiscuity
Multiple partners to pillage and destroy.
Death rides with us on our ecstasy,
Seed within our seed sown carelessly
By dupes who would the enemy deploy,
Wanderer within our will to be,
Foiled alone by a society
Whose common strength of will does each will buoy.
Death rides with us on our ecstasy,
Less threatening the more fidelity
Fences off the flesh with which we toy.
Wanderer within our will to be,
AIDS, if nothing else, has helped us see
That we must love if we would lust enjoy.
Death rides with us on our ecstasy,
Wanderer within our will to be.
Debbie
Debbie has donated her right kidney,*
Ever generous, even with her life.
Being is a gift to be passed on
Before one's private miracle is done,
Image of a grace not grace enough
Except when given to another gladly.
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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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Because One Hundred and Thirteen Generations

Because one hundred and thirteen generations
Of Jews lit candles for eight days and prayed
(No doubt a miracle--flames in empty jars),
Nor could they, spangled abroad like lonely stars,
Inter their music, or cull their recitations,
Each cantillated word is death delayed.
Some memories are miracles: the jars
Empty yet dancing with light, the generations
Touched also by fire, burning like distant stars,
History twinkling with their recitations
Lest words be forgotten and the future die. They prayed
On their way naked to the ovens; they prayed
Resting by Babylon's stagnant waters; they delayed
Reeling into memory's end, the empty jars
Aflame with words, afire with recitations,
In words their mountains, their rivers, deserts, stars;
Nations flowing towards silence, the generations
Ebbing into darkness, with candles they delayed ...
Granted they seem strange. Their recitations
Are as alien as Aztec chants. The empty jars
Burning in the temple, the scattered stars
Returning eagerly each night. Whose prayers delayed
Interment in darkness? Which sunless soul prayed
Earnestly enough to light the stars?
Long has this love been borne by their generations.
Blessed Are Those both in and out of Time
Blessed are those both in and out of time.
Only in the moment is forever.
Nothing is an artifact of motion,
Nor can one live without that pseudo-notion
In which death is the end of all endeavor,
Each being being mortal and sublime.
Sing, then, of things both mortal and sublime,
Eternity within each tick of time,
The moment that gives grace to each endeavor,
Here within a now that lasts forever,
Even as we cannot grasp the notion,
Living as we do in constant motion.
In art one feels the shock that stops the motion,
Zealous to embody the sublime
And be oneself beyond all thought or notion,
Blessed by being in and out of time.
Each thing of beauty mirrors the forever
That lies within the moment, an endeavor
Harsh and holy, all one can endeavor.
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