Please Forgive Me

I'm sorry, I think I made a mistake
that happens sometimes.
I'm sorry, but this is too much to
take,
can you forgive me?
I'm sorry, my feelings hurt too by reply
and yours?
I'm sorry, could this be good-bye?
I know it's my fault...

and I'm sorry.
Sept. 23, 1995

Sunshine

rose petals fill the air
fresh scent of spring
flowers in the yellow field
sway to the bluebird song

sun filtering
beating warm through cloud fluff
the mushrooms under
pinetrees,
peeking up from a needle prison
staying cool and moist

whirly maple seeds
join the petals
bees are happy today
Nov. 1995

Tears

Magic fingers
swoop low over the cemetery
tears are falling
dry cheeks becoming saturated
tears becoming a salty river
and a boat can float
jump in, it can sail you away
across the lake
filled by this stream
the lake must be an ocean
it is filled with salt
and so are her cheeks
by the shore she stands
and the magic fingers
grab for her breath
she struggles for air
with a gasp
magic fingers change heart
and wipe her cheeks dry.
Nov. 1995

Sandcastles

My toes sink into the damp sand
waves splash up
to bury my feet
the sun beats down
and my hair sucks it in
imitating the golden rays

warm my pale skin
but rosy my cheeks
and I trudge back to
the umbrella masking my
beach blanket.
The calluses on foot bottoms
vaguely painful
from sandfire.

My mind changes and
instead of clean and cool
on the blanket under the
umbrella,
I choose the warm sunlit
sand
and ignore the grit in my hair
Later leaving behind only
my sand angel,
and the castle I want to
live in someday.
Sept. 1995

Mother's Clock

She looks at me and
I imagine to myself
What she expects of me
this time, sand
it falls slowly marking
the passing of time.
It's time
time to do my homework,
Or time,
time to dust the old
Living room chest we use as
a coffee table,
and time,
time to practice my piano,
Someday I will get a scholarship
I'm imagining that too.
I know she thinks it.
And I know,
I'm sure, it means more to her than me
But it's my life,
and her time.
My watch says it's now
Hers is fast by a few years.
Nov. 1995

Friends

the cigarette burns a hole
through the styrofoam plate.
they aren't made for ashtrays,
she tells me
but why should I care?
it's her table
in her house
it's almost out anyway
you can't smoke the filter
I feel happy,
but maybe it's the nicotine buzz
her fingernails are red
I wish mine were,
but mine are too short
and my fingers too stubby
so i change the conversation
to motorcycles
because mine is brand new
and instead she can be jealous.
Nov. 1995