my poetry

Weeds

dandelion_bouquet_for_mother_2_2c49acaa23d5ea4064a223814abbc09d

A child came running to me

With  gifts of weeds

and set them on the picnic table.

There the dandelions were left,

It was not their fault that they were blown in-

a child’s whim to be dropped,

Shrivelled and dried.

these settlers’

stems’ and veins’ ends

were not here, but

in impartial joy-

What am I to say anyway?

That dandelions are intruders, squatters,

I might as well say:

That Father Christmas is myth,

Fairies don’t really exist,

Weeds- do not gift.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shriven

Muffled whispers

I try to ignore

as I stand in line,

examination of conscience

no, no, no –

flip,

no, maybe, no –

Pause,

My gut turns a bit-

what am I to say?

Even in my searching

I palliate

what my heart did:

Murdered

Fornicated

Stole

Blasphemed

Countless, countless times.

Lord,

Have Mercy on me,

a poor sinner

about to be shriven!