Moving from one person to another
One of them will know me
They’ll feel my music
They’ll see my pictures
They’ll read my words
They’ll hear my voice

I don’t know what the point is
I don’t know where this goes
The start of the beginning?
The start of the end?
Flowers that grow in my mind
I never have in my hand

When it’s cold and I can’t move
I only put words together
Like a frame around emptiness
Nothing inside, I can see through, then
you say something, that paints the space
I hope those fragments are real.

RR 2009

Would it be easy to turn off the light?
Only when the work is done.
When the nurturing and care has been given
When the words of unwanted advice are no longer requested
Or ingested
Or mocked
When the hope of rebirth and repetition is finally quashed
Stamped out
When vision of environment and economy
Is stuck in its stagnant unavoidable clarity
And the last expectation of movement and growth
Is beaten dead.