the trouble with solutions

the trouble with solutions
is there's never enough
soup to go around
save some hot and sour
for later, when we send
our weary stars
to the end of the world
to give out
to give up
to rest

Grandma Syl

Ukrainian Grandma
her Yiddish, quite impressive
her nose, humped at the bridge

heard

my sterile life
my plagued, bound soul
under my thumb
out of control

here is the thing
it just takes a word
a crossing of chasm
a warmth that is heard

my blood

my blood
does not sit well
in calm
will nourish my heart
in fear
cannot rest
unless put
to the test
will flow happy
only when
the end
is near

from the cafe acroos the street

grassy hair, big lips
freckled and Jeckyll'ed
hide as she will
the bounty of the beauty
of the lady sitting on the stoop
in front of the gelato shop
will not remain
unspoken

by the cold creek (for Basho)

by the cold creek
by the summer, sublimated
by the lisping songbirds
the plums of autumn
die to live
in the clammy hands
of an old woman
ripe with hunger

in the greatness

in the greatness
lies the rub
you're going to fall
as hard as sin
splinter as impossibly
as a ceramic vase
lobbed from the top
of a redwood

but know yourself
as inescapably whole
while it happens

you will still break

but nevertheless
will believe yourself worthy
even after the wheel of time
has had its way
with you