To many blows have made a hole
The wound where all the blood
Of poetry poured out
Onto the ground
Drained she waits
For desert winds
To dry the tears
Into salty grains
Of rolling sand
Her body wrinkles
And contorts just like
A tortured scream
Into the night
The moons takes
Pity the man and turns her
Into the only tree
That can survive this moral desert
And she reaches out
An olive branch
Sometimes you get a very personal blow
To the stomach
And your are expected to recover and even
Get better
Because they say whatever does not kill,,,
But does it heal?
And what about those football kids who got
Too many blows
What ever happened to their heads
Ministers
Please pray for our souls and keep our dreams
Alive
If you continue to add
Lively colors into my days
I will write poems
For your paintings
And will run to find
A singer in the street
To add his music
In the lower left
Corner
The one that hangs loose
And ready to flow
Out of the frame
With grace
Though a dance .
This way
The arts will stay
With us
In the same room,
Will day?
I have broken 1000 times
In a million pieces
And all it took was you
to swirl by
in your form of light
From the north
To build me back
Like a column
Piercing the sky
The colder I get
The more fragile
Can you stay
Long enough
To make me green
Suple and soft
And ready for spring
For I have been long
hungered for light
