When you came home
I saw flowers in your hair.
Sweet smelling lilacs and tulips
in the garden off Larchmere.
And I lifted you
so you could get a peek inside
where you were supposed to be.
Somewhere along the line
you lost faith in God and me,
and forgot what I told you
about patience,
about the pace at which things travel.
You cleverly disguised this
as disinterest,
and I lost faith in what I believed.
You are easy to get ahold of,
but a difficult woman to reach.
I saw you,
a picture of you,
a physical facsimile

It’s five in the morning
and there is sunlight on Jupiter,
a bright speck
to the naked eye
just north of the hazy crescent moon.
I can discern no visible detail
on this distant gas giant.
Did I spot Ganymede,
did I spot Io?
Did I spy Europa
possible bearer of life?
Oh, are these specks,
tiny Jovian moons
still larger than luna
in our southern sky?
are they a trick of my eyes
and my active imagination?
Because what I see
is a tiny white orb
in my telescope lense.
Mars is not visible this morning.

http://disintegrate-me.com/linepoem.html
 

 
 Of type
we
brought the tulips to bud.
 
Of type
and origin, I
was amusing I suppose now.
 
Little bee, where did
you flutter off to?
Flying off to a thornless flower?
You won’t find pollen there.
 
                               Could you be more obscure

Last Tuesday
 
I. (Last Tuesday)
 
I’m still incredulous.
At first I could have sworn that it was a joke,
or a highly stupid mistake.
"Nobody misses that."
I said to Mike Trundy
at the Wyndham Hotel.
Jared and I went into the Winsors Bar
where the hotel guests had gathered
and nobody was going anywhere soon.
Everything happened in a flash
a great and terrible flash in the sky
and all I can think is how many people’s lives are wasted,
what purpose does this serve?

High above me
in atmospheric clouds
I saw a perfect circle frame
with a bulls – eye center moon.
She is a white lady,
whom God has provided
to lead my way at night
she is framed
in a perfect circle
that he traced with his finger
over me in this one instant in time.
I have seen my Father’s handiwork
right in front of my eyes, saying
“it will be all right, son.
Just wait and see.”
Even at night
I have a beacon to light my way,
framed in a perfect circle.

Inside the silk bag
where I’ve been recreated
inside the chrysalis
I am resurrected.
Oh, I need no further proof
of my living, breathing God.
Now I need no further proof,
for he has breathed life into me.
For I was dead,
I was disintegrated
inside my chrysalis.
Of many legs and ugly prickly hairs
I was,
inside my silk coffin.
In my old life
I was a greedy leaf eater,
and my appetite was unsuppresable.
Inside my silk womb
I have rotted away.
But lo, what is this
the hand of God touches my face

Just sitting here thinking…….
What’s the right thing to do?
I could think of nothing more,
Than to write this poem for you
You are a great friend to me
No one could ask for better…….
We’ve been through thick and through thin,
And through every kind of weather
I know that I hurt you, and
Regret causing you pain……
I thank the Lord for your forgiveness,
And ecstatic that we are friends again
We have lots of fun…..
You’re always good at making me laugh…..
We look forward to the future,
And far beyond the past

All of the images
Sending mixed messages
Massacring the masses
While we view hindsight through rose-colored glasses
And all the whispers stop
Silence thick as the sound of a pin drops
A moment of silence for all the victims
The same silence amongst use that ultimately killed them
And my mind is still filled with the images
Of tortured beliefs maturing while sanity diminishes

AGE OLD PROBLEM    by Wanda VanHoy Smith
 
The poets problem is she doesn’t recognize her age
who is that stranger in the mirror?
she doesn’t believe that years count.
Feelings count and love counts
The IRS counts to tax our lives.
Accountants count in search of loopholes
Mathematicians count right angles and triangles
Artists try all angles and want to count
Poets work to make every word count
because trite no account  ideas add up
Musicians count to make us waltz or swing
She counts all her hugs and kisses