Lost Password

I’ve lost the password to what used to be my life.
The air is strange and I’m losing my sense of balance.
I search through remnants scattered in the home I sold,
Wondering what to keep, or sell, or trash.

In the coffeeshop, the chatter is of family discord:
Recent losses, expected deaths, and mangled hopes
Fall like tears from the balcony, splashing on me,
Where I sit, trying to create a new password.

The Arms Merchants

Dark eye

The arms merchants recruit the awful hungers
of the power mongers and trim their synapses
with greed
Then power mongers hypnotically whisper
to the shamed and lonely ones filled with rigid angers
and find the hungriest to bombast
“the Others are thieves who want
what’s ours. Stop them. Guns!
guns, guns, guns.”

Making ghosts of our children.


In the silence of a broken tv
old stories clamour.
Without the noise of distant horrors and injustices,
old and Intimate pains 
begin to throb.

The distraction of the world’s tremors
is lost
and what has been forcefully swallowed 
pushing out into this unsought silence.

Is this a healing?
Are these imprisoned stories
releasing into a cleansing
or into renewed nauseous festering.
Is there meaning in the silence?
tv screen


What’s left
after the washing is put away
and the dishes are done?

What’s left
after they all leave
without waving goodbye?

I close myself in the small room
with my past
struggles and accomplishments
and reach for . . .

What’s left
after anger and desolation?

What’s left
is an old woman reaching out
to find
what’s left
when she becomes invisible,
alone and

waiting to find out
she will now