ON LEAVING

often, sorrow streams from our hearts,
flooding the roads of yester days and future days
when those close to our hearts are lost
along the path we thread

even, years thereafter,
puddles of sorrow gather
between the dry spaces of our memories

such sorrow gushes upward into the night
and touches the mountain of belief
that looms high, strong, and majestic
upon the peak of belief, near the clouds,

it is there
that memories and spirit meet
to peek at the stars, to see the moon,
and to face the day of hope
the day when the beautiful song of poetry
capitulate or conspire with the task of our weeping
to render or bring together
bouquets of gestures
of quiet but fertile abundant lush
of fragrance of honor
of what we have all the year long

JUST SAYING, THANKS

thanks for being strength in my weakness
thanks for being hope in my despair
and mores, thanks for being there

when light walks away from the forest
and along the long lonely snaking road
are cascading pike-peak thorns
they hurt the foot at where none can care
when all you can hear are crickets singing their dirges
when we call for ululation to heal the hurts
I hear your gentle voice saying:
here I am, love is all I can give

when the sun rises as it usually does,
and the cock crows at the hour it can;
when the apostolic minister rings the church bells
and the congregation begins to sing the 'martins',
hear it again, it's me saying once again,
thanks for all the love