At Another Poetry Reading

Gave up coffee, alcohol, and smoking for lent

As I usually do, but it's the middle of lent now

And I happen to be at a poetry reading - so

That means all the lenten bets and exercises are off!

I'm drinking coffee straight up hot black and

Soaked with strength and flavor, my first in weeks.

Damn that coffee's good!

The white wine's calling out my name also

So I'm going to have to oblige that next - after all

There is a five dollar credit card minimum.

There's Theresa, the massage therapist.

How many years has it been since I've had a massage

And how much do you charge because I could really use one.

There's Christopher, bear of a man, with beaming eyes.

Beaming spiritual acceptance and sharing his hopes and dreams.

He's a great guy.

There's another Michael also, quiet and reserved and

Listening to all our words and, like myself,

Calling out for love. That's why we come to these things,

We show up searching.

So we share our work, our labor, our words,

And letters; we're poets in the truest sense of the word.

The coffee and the wine flowing and lubricating the

Verses and rhythms and rhymes and meter and all.

The small group of our foursome radiating a combined

Energy. We're our own literary island among

The other coffee shop patrons.

Clock strikes ten and the shop's about to close down.

I don't want to go! I want some more!

Adieu all, until we meet again!

Tossed Away

There's a nearby island
Where they throw babies away.
People find the tiny bodies
Washed up on sandy shores or
Tossed out in isolated open areas
Like old and broken dolls tossed away.
Except, they weren't toys;
They were living and breathing beings
Defensless against what was done to them.
The law catches the tossers - eventually.
Then there's no safe place on earth for them.
Nobody likes a baby killer, especially here in this place.
Their names and faces plastered in the papers
And on the news, targets advertised for destruction
At the hands of those who have suffered.
No matter how much security tries to
Protect them, they'll get theirs when
They get tossed in here.

Too Good To Be Born

To good to be born here soon.
Safe in my mother's womb.
Dark and warm and floating and
Connected as one with her.

No reason to leave this
Safety and warmth and
Love and all the goodness
In here, it's all so nice.

I'm supposed to be born,
It's almost time, I'm nearly term
Now at 37 weeks. Maybe
It's not supposed to be?

They're going to do everything
They possibly can to bring
Me from this world into theirs.
In the end, it's not up to them.

All their efforts and energies and
Hopes and prayers for naught.
No amount of skill, experience, discipline,
Or anything will bring me.

I am not to be, not there anyway.

This Knife

Maybe this knife isn't as sharp as it used to be.

There are nicks and chips in the blade and

Maybe a bend in it too; it has some scars, some history.

The flat of the blade doesn't shine as it used to,

Not without some polish applied.

There might even be a touch of rust on it,

But that doesn't detract from its sharpness.

It still cuts and it still holds an edge.

This knife is still dangerous in the proper hands.

Maybe it's all about how it's handled?

Sometimes an old dull blade cuts worse

Than a young sharp one.