Labor Love

Love labors
often in the pit of sorrows;
an ax
often pounding away
digging deeper down in sorrows' depths
to the sub-strata of Bitter Regrets.
Love sometimes labors
planting Honey Trees
watching them grow
to form garden-greens and water-falls.
Laboring Love
brings the baby child
whose smiles
washes away the pain child-bearing brings.
Love labors
in my eyes
in which you can see
my heart waiting
along that rosy road
which always brings you home to me.
Laboring love
exhausts itself
for it has no choice
but to be relentless
in pursuit giving birth to itself.

Laundries

She beats the laundry
on the rocks
before the stream.
She beats
the laundry
till the linens are clean.
She lays out the laundry
in the hot sun
till dry heated by the sun
and sterilized.
She beats the dirty souls
on the rocks
before the baptismal stream.
She beats the dirty souls
till the dirty souls are clean.
She lays out the dead souls
in the blazing sun
till they are sterilized.

Look At Me

Look at me
Look at my mouth,
the little up-curve at the ends;
Look at my hair
the way I stroke it
when I talk;
Look at
what I wear
some of it
is for you.
Notice how I smell.
Notice how I look,
how I breathe
when you are near;
come close to me;
lean in
when we talk.
Touch my face sometimes.
Notice the brown specks
in my eyes;
touch me
when I walk by;
laugh a little for no reason
when you say hello.
Look at me
at odd times
from across the room.
Back into me
at parties expecting a hug
from behind
And thank you love
cause you do
all this
all the time.

Lost and Found
You know
I am familiar
with the subtle look
the blatant come on;
the attention you can get
with just a skirt
with just a too tight fit.
I know
that hair done just right
the sheer blouse that reveals
a little more
in the light
gets the glance
some days
and some nights.
Men make themselves available
if you give
a little encouragement
but
unfortunately
in doing that
it's always the wrong ones;
the aggressive
and the horny.
I want to be admired
not bedded.
I am familiar
with the sweet guy
who worshiped me
but the truth is
that too much worship
is boring.
I know the guy
who only aspires
to be my buddy guy
and thinks that by hanging close
he can get close enough
to move from buddy
to the bed post.
There's the drunk mistake
I made
to be quickly forgotten.
The boy
who stole my heart
and never gave it back.

The rough one
who took too much.
The one with the ring
that got returned.
I know that sounds like a long list
but not so long
for one my age.
Stories ends are best
told in the very last line:
This one ends with you
who checked me out
of the lost and found.