Lost Stories (2)

At eight years old, a dynamo: 
A Supergirl, a CEO, 
A scientist, a diplomat, 
An artist and an acrobat -- 

At eighteen, still, a power plant: 
A lioness, a Federal grant, 
A lover and a covert spy, 
A reason and an alibi -- 

At twenty-eight, a marvel yet, 
An adjective, an epithet, 
A story told uproarious, 
A work-in-progress glorious 

She dreamed her life then lived her dreams, 
A hidden place behind what seems, 
But all-in-all the good outweighs 
The shadows in 

Her yesterdays

Lost Stories (1)

The house was made of wood and mold, 
The floor of dust and timber,
She lived in it as she grew old,
But she stayed limber

By bending back into the years
Of power and of glory;
Between what’s felt and what appears
Lives every story —

Within the heart that reaches out,
Within the graying eyes,
Come all the truths that conquer doubt,
Though they be lies —

She lived behind a wire fence
Beside an open sewer,
A story lost to time and sense,
Except for those

Who knew her

One Rise (2)

She always jumped from relationships, 
Feeling that the better people knew her
The less likely they’d love her.
Maybe you know that feeling.

But eventually,
There was no one left to jump to.
Walking gingerly through a haunted existence,
Smiles flickering at best —

Standing outside at sunrise,
She holds what warmth she can close to her heart,
As autumn whispers overhead —
Maybe you know that feeling?

Glimpses (5)

The storm was beautiful, but she 
was full of everything but fear;
That evening feels like yesterday,
Though it was yesteryear —

How fresh the snow when we are fresh,
how wondrous when we’re wondering —
How strange the storm seems now withal
the distant thundering

Is she the girl of yesterday?
The woman of tomorrow?
And when the clouds have cleared, will she
again drink of

moonsorrow?

Glimpses (4)

His mother was an absentee, 
His father, an explorer —
He grew beneath a dying tree,
Both up, and poorer —

Now autumn sings out in the woods,
As winter comes a-calling;
He’s got the cans, but not the goods,
And more than leaves are falling —

We live, because we’re born to live,
But he’s afraid of dying:
And if I said he’d told the truth,
Then I’d

Be lying