Momentarily

As he pulled her to him-

And he opened his mouth

Her mouth sought out him-

In a hot and hungry way.

She leaned into the angle of his kiss

He might be leaving her home

Momentarily, but she damned well

Wanted him to remember her

And this moment-in-time!

She molded her body to his soft body-

And his eyes, opened slightly

As he quickly gained the knowledge

Of every hill and gully of her body.

She aimed to make this moment memorable.

So he’d remember her and that kiss!

Precarious Calm

Rolling on

Dressed in rags

Life for them

Is a casual affair

Ripe for the plucking

Just moving along

Punk in the truest

Sense of the word

Once I was lost

In your endless trance

I quickly hit

Rock bottom

I reinvented my fragile mask

Still knowing this is but

Deception

Yet it has given me a life

Of depth and grace

It goes well unless

I look below

And see the spikes

Points fastened upwards

With steel chain

As I clinging to a mountain path above

Say my prayers and pop my pills

Walking on borrowed time

We all live behind plain facades

But deep inside are dragons

My Mountain

(For My Father, Fred P. Ford, Sr. 1909-1988)

Standing there!!

Pointed curves all over.

Muscle bounded.

Your stillness is omnipotent,

streams of sweat

roll down your surface.

Caves within you

are your eyes.

Your top is white from longevity

when melting, it’s your tears.

You shield me from the angry winds.

Seismic disturbances

make you growl!!

But you are gentle

as your foundation—my mother.

Yes, you are my protector

Yes, you are my mountain!

And I love you,

For you are my father.

Assuagement

The immediate post-stress relief

Is surely what mercy bequeaths,

The burial of appalling fear,

Interred too deeply for tears.

The comfort in emotional solitude

Is the soul's couch for vacant mood;

And then, eased into recovery,

Inner peace nurses what's savory.

The healing process begins,

And the Spirit orchestrates

what mends.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Teeth of Holiness

Small apostolic acts of faith

Become the cogs on a gearwheel

Upon which all the creative movement

Towards the Kingdom is based.

What Kind of Year Will 2021 Be?

What kind of year will 2021 be?

Oh, dear God, I shudder to see,

Will this virus be wiped out?

From the USA to the UK,

We are developing vaccines,

To rid the world of this plague,

What kind of year will 2021 be?

Will we have poverty or profitability?

Will more businesses close?

Or will we finally get to see some

Concerts and Broadway shows?

Will we be singing all the way to the bank?

Or will we all have Trump to thank,

For the holes in our pockets,

And the tears in our shoes,

Will we be singing the blues?

Or will Frank Sinatra rise from the grave,

To give his rendition of “New York, New York”

Or “My Kind of Town Chicago”

Or “Luck Be a Lady Tonight”,

Will we be singing along with Rod Stewart?

“Some Guys Have All the Luck”

Or will we be down to our last buck?

What will the year 2021 usher in?

Let’s hope it’s a year

Where We Win! Win! Win!

When Sirens Shatter the Air

When prayer claws through screams, makes its way

through the dark tunnel of a traumatized throat.

When silence is too heavy for the ears to carry.

When the heart only knows allegro as tempo.

When fear becomes flesh.

When shrapnel rips through innocence.

When CPR is a broken tool.

When lead takes a father, a child.

When windshields hold the memories

of sudden violence.

When the young press their faces

in a rough field for protection.

When the ones who vowed to save lives

hug the ones who vowed to protect lives.

When a hair-netted woman picks up

wet sorrow drowned in tissues.

When the pizza delivery guy delivers

sustenance to families with famished spirits.

When a community’s blanket of security tatters.

When answers do not match questions.

When grief begets grief, and grief, and grief,

we reach for something, someone beyond ourselves.

Some call it hope.

Some call it love.

Some call for God.

In our blind reaching, we write a message with our tears.

I don’t want to be alone.

We are not alone.

Inside every old person is a sitting duck

I'll tell you what happened.

You slept too long, and you

nightmared the crow's feet to life

poked around in the shadows

disoriented by the ripples in the pond

smile lines submitted to gravity

Your mirror stained and blemished

after decades of buff and bluff,

reflects wrinkles of a weathered terrain.

You may think surfaces, but your eyes

open only to exterior light. They fail

to recognize the sitting duck within.