Circle Circle

Oh why, dear muse, has this pen been forsaken?
Does verse not slake your ego when you thirst?
Perhaps your taste in wine I have mistaken,
a sour grape for muse? I have rehearsed
the motions of the quill I made before
but little seems to flow. The verses should
be pooling on the paper, not the floor
like blood or urine. If one only could
turn on and off the muse through force of will,
extract the feelings deep within the heart,
I’d wick the fear and love from pot to quill
and scratch them on a page. If I could start

perhaps then, muse, you would restore my knack
and let the magic circle, circle back.

Mother's MIlk (symbiosis)

Our first addiction is to mother's milk,
a flow that, every mother knows, must cease.
And never is a weaning smooth as silk--
and ever does the child fear his release.

As you are being weaned from perfect meals,
consuming as you are, yourself, consumed,
you learn, to some degree, how dying feels
and realize that paradise is doomed.

Our mother lost, we need to love again
and often search, in vain, for a reflection
of mother's love. We choose a mate and then
we imitate the ultimate connection--

the "I-am-you-are-me-is-she-is-we";
I am the milk, the mother's milk is me.