Wednesday, August 31, 2005


The last day of the month. Just to review: at the onset of bloggerdom, someone determined that the designated subject on the last day of every month shall be cats. Cute. It has led to a plethora of cat stories, bios, and pictures. I own a cat, love 'em.

But my interest is poetry. So I have another tradition: on the last day of every month, I post a poem. It is about the only consistent thing I have done with this online journal. I encourage others to do the same. Once I get better at setting up links, I'll add anyone's poetry to my opening page.


Pam met me at the door,
speechless and wrought, unable to watch
any more news from the Gulf,
where thousands mill about the land
lost from all connection to reality,
where Home is no longer a structure, no longer a city,
no longer safety and food and water,
Nothing to grasp and say, I’m fine.

She wants to fix it.

The stories are multiplied by the living,
marked by the dead,
and carried in the hearts of those who strive to comfort;
if we could pick one, send bread and drink and blanket,
we could be the neighbor that says
Your city is gone, my door is open.
But the size overwhelms our senses;
the breadth of the sea, the strength of the wind,
the lash of the rain, the power of the moving sky,
the layers of grey clouds that just will not go away.

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