Her Voice

Maya Angelou 1928-2014


Nothing is permanent
except perhaps that voice 
that rose like pure unadulterated air
beyond the pale of all tomorrows.

She breathed in a spiritual essence and
exhaled words etched with attitude,
imbued with a certitude that just being could
be stone cold but also light, so light,

that the dust left after
life's grinding and pummeling
would drift into the atmosphere,
pushed by the winds of strength

propelled by her lyrical prose 
that spoke to the broken parts of all of us,
smoothing the edges with the graceful
unbowed cadence of her eternal dignity.





The Taste of Dark Water


There is a stillness
when sinking into dark water.
A calm that envelops you
after the storm has passed

and you are spent, 
bruised from the dashing of the rocks
and the slaps of the whitecaps,
no longer gasping for air.

Sinking slowly in graceful balletic turns,
time has left with a long list
of others to push toward the shore,
and the relief is immense and welcome.

And through the murky water
there is a sense of clarity
for in all things there is an end
but to truly understand it 

we must remember the beauty of how it all began.





Firefly Summer


Memorable are the long languid days
when humidity hangs
like a heavy surcoat
and the smallest of breezes
offers a promise of relief
like an errant lover.


When the sun slinks slowly
beyond the grateful horizon
the fairies gather along dark roads 
and manicured lawns.

And

then they light up the earth
as they dance against
the velvet sky, these
tiny stars, 
scintillating sparks,
beneath the leafy canopy
of firefly summer.