poems worth reading

The bullet grazed my leg
Just a flesh wound
Was it my fault
Did I instigate
Inflammatory vitriol
Should I apologize for my
Free associations
The way my pen glides
Across the page to the core
Of dissension
Perhaps it was my skirt
Was it too tight, too short
Hugging the curves
Of my body
Making you hot and thirsty
The freedom of Alvin Alley
Dancers with their legs
Spread
Opening the flow
For free expression
Dancing to the voice
Of Maya Angelou
The seekers, the marchers
The painters, the writers
All refugees like me

The morning is once again,
open view, clanging of milkman’s cans, gates open
school traffic. It is not rush. It is meditative, contemplating inner action, but you know morning has arrived.
You will go to work, yawn, type a line or two, three, yawn waiting for the next morning. Sleep is only delicately poised.

my manicured hand
wakes me
a new instrument
sharper than before

I sail through the cosmos
blowing thoughts fly away
in the path to nowhere
I come back
to the beginning

I suppose you could say
that I’m lucky
because I’ve realized
who I am
and what I do
is deadly.
It didn’t take me years
or all that many months
but now I’m undeniably
in trouble.
Do I care? No, not really
or at least as much as I should.
In the end, I want it
to end my suffering.
But that is selfish
so I’ll be a good girl
and recover, possibly,
or at least pretend to.
Visit http://fromfinner.wordpress.com/.

new terrain
moonlight walk
holding your hand