Man in dark mustache wants your vote,
The one in yellow pamphlet of promise.
Mustaches hide the smiles for elections,
Like squirrels hiding the nuts in a bush.
We promise our nothing ,only squirrels
Who chip away at our lonely mornings.
The squirrels cross our paths in walks
Sporting three dark lines on a soft fur
God or someone made in love of myth
With loving fingers of his gratefulness.
We are squirreling away all our smiles
For use in summers of ungratefulness.
We turn back to collect our shame.
We make a white cloth bundle of it ,
To carry it to the backyard to wash
At the well where shame is washed.
We have our gorge between home
And the neighbor, under his house.
We transit through it in its shadow
To the well where shame is washed.
We did nothing to bring us shame.
But we are a shame on white cloth.
We were born of a shame on cloth,
A cloth that carries maps of shame.
In that photograph ,you swim
A strange river of another city
In a hurry to reach your shore
Which must be big white wall
That defines the end of world.
The floor in your room is river
You swim on butterfly stroke.
May be in the next photograph
You reach beginning of world.
Her questions who made the world
Float in the air on this summer day
While sea rolls big dark and lonely.
She was her grass-hopper who ate
Sugar from her hands and hopped
From the grass she knew not how.
Our bodies are familiar with grass.
Its roots smell a God who made us
And grass-hopper and Mary Oliver
With questions floating in sea’s air.
(After Mary Oliver’s poem The Summer Day)
Others’ lips rustle like leaves.
Her eyes can see the leaf fall.
They hardly fall on her years.
God lives in other lips rustle
As autumn leaves of her life.
Her lips are spring for taste.
Free will is authority to refuse miracle
Away from the night and time ticking
Free will is our power to let miracles
Not happen so we can act on our will.
Free will is power to stave off words
Falling like asteroids on a dark night.
Woman poet mind saw moon,
Bald and marble over the yew
And grass humble at her feet,
Within home and headstones
And moon is wherever we go
And moon is cool like marble.
With no yew and sweet Mary,
My moon is presently absent.
(Reading meanings into Sylvia Plath’s poem The Moon and the Yew tree)