The Sihouettes

The silhouettes  come in my head

in various shapes then gather dust
and stones and become what they
are destined to become-
words. 

This is the shape and size of every

stanza that I write-five lines

by seven-eight words that sometimes
deviate away from the standard that
I set in the rhythm of poetry, and poetry.

Is it hard to understand?
Poets are insidious and fastidious-
 oh you know, how cryptic they must be,
like hiccups they produce words and beauty,
but if you hear another story
believe in that too- for in this world
there is no certainty- not in poetry,
not in love, not in what you think you
want to believe.  No certainty, never in
love. There are versions. And in them there
are versions too. 

There is no certainty in the home, so get out
straight, run through your terse head
and plunge deep into your heart so you may believe
in life there is more, so you may believe it doesn’t begin
in the womb or end with the funeral pyre-
when you trust the certainty of words, 
when you and I, and
I trust- the CERTAINTY of words.
Not you? 


If you ask me, if you do ask me-
ask me if I believe, if I believe in what I write-
what do you expect I would say?

You must hope for a silent nod when you
 hear the cruel

NO, I DON’T.