Published: 11 November 2025

now that you see

now that you see
her naked in her beauty
do you understand
the love at her command
she lends love to all
that surround her
she sets her beauty free
on those who confound her
adrift, she is wonder
to me

now that you see
the pain in her face
the place of each tear
that every winner
ground into her, see
she still runs the race
her grace cannot be
replaced, her beauty
a map that records
each trace

she lends her love
without thought of
bond or debt, she lends
her love as if she is rich
though she knew
a season of regret
each moment shines on
in her and cannot be erased
gaze upon her profile
proportion of lip to smile
fearless look of reply
now that you see
the scarred beauty of her face

More Poetry:

Visit from the mother

Mother hummingbird,
pray perch on subtle twig of lilac,
wise to trust, or so I tell myself,
pirouette so I may admire electric green

River of paper

River of paper flows beneath my every word,
where would my thoughts be but for this substrate?

How Shall We Sing The Lord’s Song In A Strange Land?

variation on psalm 137, By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat
hands drumming on ribs, feet, the ground,
the mouths of pots and guns beckon,
the wind, the clouds, are the sight of sound
to the deaf, the foreign, the prisoner.
This bridge is the harp hung across
the tears of our sorrow. Each life

Everyone wants to love me

Everyone wants to fall in love with me.
I know it.
The guy in the lineup
who waved the cucumber at me
and said, I could hit you with this
was really saying he loves me.

what is it you don’t get?

based on psalm 83 ”Keep not thou silence, O God” KJV
if you don’t want to talk it’s not all right by me
I would really appreciate a moment of your time
as I am listening to more hatred, than those who
hate you can raise, lousy lizard heads, how they despise you

Related

How Shall We Sing The Lord’s Song In A Strange Land?

How Shall We Sing The Lord’s Song In A Strange Land?

variation on psalm 137, By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat
hands drumming on ribs, feet, the ground,
the mouths of pots and guns beckon,
the wind, the clouds, are the sight of sound
to the deaf, the foreign, the prisoner.
This bridge is the harp hung across
the tears of our sorrow. Each life

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