Precious Mother, Blessed Name

(about 2004)

When upon returning home
I open the door; a presence felt
perhaps the smells of home it is
telling someone waits inside
welcoming a weary heart
bruised and torn by outside world.

I dare not imagine returning home
and opening door to empty rooms,
to faceless walls, a musty smell;
knowing I am all alone,
the wound torn deeper, worse because
here no refuge from cruel world.

If mother with her job to work,
planes to catch, degrees to earn,
left our home to find herself
to stop from being home all day
feeling useless; did she know
her sacrifice made house a home?

Quiet moments, calm repose,
maid-like duties, household chores.
Dinner's on, babe's asleep
a haven for the souls she keeps.
Arriving home, her family feels
a sense of comfort, stability.

A part of mothers own domain:
home can be a comforting word.
She lost herself; a gift to give,
belonging, to her family.
It's her presence awaits us there,
precious mother, blessed name.

Knowledge

(about 1992)

Knowledge must have a focus,
a center to which it might cling,
a point to revolve around.
As the planets are to the light of the sun,
it hangs in the mind
for addition, multiplication,
division, subtraction,
definition of derivatives,
dissecting literature to mean
something it probably really doesn't.

Or
it hangs in the heart
for service, compassion,
love, sympathy,
strengths molded from weakness
becoming today something better
than what you thought
even possible yesterday.

Both
a balance of ideas
of values
of control, use of the senses
and distribution of love.

How?
Seeing the lessons, not just looking.
Hearing the words of those who know,
not just listening;
Breathing with every step,
singing a tune,
going slow,
enjoying every silence,
bit of laughter, freedom,
sound . . . passing
as a wave chases another
to the shoreline
and cracks
in its sailing motion.
The world still spins,
seeking the light of its own focus.

To Throw A Strike

(about 1992)

Listen to the common sounds of the field:
the staccato clanging of the backstop,
blurred conversations of parents,
cheers of the opposing team.
"Way to go . . . way to go . . ."

Imagine they're saying that to you.
But because you know they're really not . . .
Make certain your hands are dusty.
Listen to your father shouting-
(the sound, not the words-
the words won't help now).

Cancel out the fact that you
walked the last batter.
make sure the ball doesn't shine;
if it does, twist it into the dirt.
Look at the mound and focus on the dust.
Take the toe of your cleated shoe
and wipe lines into the dust.

Don't keep track of balls or strikes . . .
what do they matter?
Think of the tough chic up to bat
trying to out-stare your glare
and let the sun in your eyes
make you angry
so the adrenaline will surge your arm.

Don't lose the adrenaline.
Make sure you push your hair back into the cap
which must be turned slightly to the right
so that your right eye and its edge
make a direct line to the catcher's mitt.

Take your time.
Position your fingers on the threads of the ball
so you feel the leather spin off the tips of your fingers--
like a miracle.
Take the excitement of roller-coasters,
the freedom of seagulls,
and the force of the mountains overtowering.
Breathe in the sweating hot grass.
And throw . . .

Why not?

(about 1996)

They tell me no.
Still, you know I can.
I take you with me
and we get there.

They say
distance brings you
farther away.

Still, you weren't right there,
and we are so close.

They plumb the mysteries
of life, crush them
in their hands,
throw them in the can.

You solve them
by living them.

You take the rainbows
with you,
hand out some red here,
some green there,
and throw the others
into your laughter.

The sky rains to clean the streets
and gives the world
another rainbow.

You could climb it.