What Remains of My Parents

What remains of my parents
is buried
within my subconscious, 
opened by random impulses and
photos shared by algorithms 
in memory programs.

What remains of my parents
is buried
in a deserted graveyard,
silent except for the gravestones, 
close to my mother’s girlhood place
And far away.

Old Bone Tunnel

“Old bone/ tunnel through which I came.”

– Margaret Atwood

Old woman in a blue dress
stands in the sun,
Stares at her grandmother’s old home
And the ancient ferns,

what it will be like
to follow her.

Old Human Be-ing

Pervasive sadness wakes my nights
& smothers my days.
Nothing wrong except
the news of the world,
and circumstances. 

Against the fecund spring
with its greens and blossoms,
the gravestones announce
the coming winter freeze.

The shortening days
and path.
are hidden in the dark.

Little time left
to claim joy.

and just 



Beauty assaults me,
bounces into my hands,
                                      and my heart
at the long-absent voice. 

Like the greening and blossoms of spring ,
                                                             joy embraces
         sings to me, 
                                 grasps my hand.
I hear and feel

Pentecost Monday

Years have a shape; they throb and ache:
the daily step, the monthly debt.
Mornings rise and afternoons serve -
hidden tears and blazing joys. 

Wasted moments and Summers end,
Autumns harvest and Winters task - 
the long lost times dissolve, dissipate
and Springs secrete unburdened hope. 

Years have a shape and accumulate,
seasons repeat and propagate
the tears and joys that shape our lives,
the days and memories we consecrate.


Memories and a locked chest
Sometimes the mirror moves
showing me what
I’d rather not see.

Memories shift and reform
revealing different stories,
painfully clear now.

We wear such narrow glasses
spotlighting one version,
blind to and blurring peripheral possibilities.