Poem # 47 On leaving an empty house.

On leaving an empty house

A full house is a home,
it has a rhythm and beat of life,
a pulse, it sings a song.
An empty house is clean, utilitarian,
a machine for living in.

then just as you turn to leave --

a widening shaft of sunlight illuminates
a corner and you remember that's where
the sewing machine stood,
and the negative shadow shapes
on the wall were
positive family portraits,
and on the refrigerator
was childrens art,
a glorious gallery lyric
celebrating life.

Poem # 46 Weeping

Weeping

Why feel sad? Why cry?
Is it because you see reality more clearly?
Cry for lost species
eliminated to sate our appetites.
Cry for magic that has been forgotten.
Cry for those who won't try
to find the poetry that surrounds them.
Cry for those trying to be someone
other than themselves.
Cry for originals who
want to be modified.
Cry for children who
act like adults.
Cry for those who are free
but think they're prisoners.
Cry for those who betray
their sex.

Poem # 45 History

History

Can you jump in the same
river twice?
When we look at the same painting
is the painting that you see
the same as the painting that I see?
Why gamble our share of the present
on the future?
Investing every misery towards a happy
ending to our history.
Our combined story will never end,
either happily or unhappily,
it ends every second.
Content for some,
discontent for others.
One second up, one second down,
the beat and tempo of a rhythm,
all ways ending, all ways not ending.
Is there anything, or is there
nothing to wait for?