daninmaya

Could this be the mystery 

that you couldn’t solve 

or find

with answers to the questions

no one asked 

the smell lying in the air 

the taste of death on the lips 

clothing that removes itself 

from weary bodies

finds hooks and hangers 

as best it can 

and blends into the wrinkled walls

with the lack of endings 

and the silent shoulds

No is not the other side of yes

no is a whole world 

the only purpose of no

is to find the door 

windows don’t work 

you can see the tide coming in

little grey nos are swirling 

around your feet

When they say the odds

are one in a thousand 

are they reduced by half

after five hundred times 

on the day after nine hundred 

and ninety nine 

is there certainty at last 

will I go out the door smiling 

A line that draws a circle 

draws a square 

the words that speak to water

speak to air

the trees that reach to heaven 

reach the ground 

the love that grows in silence 

grows in sound 

Time and the question hang

in the stale air

the wheel has turned 

now live it

and love it

the wheels turn and turn 

wind ruffles the soft green buds

of the new fir fingers 

rain has come 

eyes open in every direction 

Sliding sideways through life

with both hands 

on the slippery guardrails 

in my mind 

take a slow deep breath 

drifting into the smokey clouds

of the confusing conversation 

about the meaning of words 

and approaching end of nothing 

nothing at all 

My name is on the face I wear

the why is in my eyes

I listen to the talk of where

with silence and a slice of sighs

the sound is walking out the door 

I do not hear the voice of more

something must be lost 

before it can be found 

my fear is all in squares

before it can be round 

There was a warning in the trees 

and the shaking ground

branches in the wind

the direction to run 

there was nothing to say

about the next thing 

the next day 

the next month 

we put butter on the toast 

water coming to a boil

we will have tea 

and carry on

there is nothing to say 

the past the present and the future 

are all in this together 

the whistling and the crash 

and nothing to say 

I had a bruise in the beginning 

and an ache around the end

I don’t know if I can stretch 

or how much I can bend

I cannot measure sleeping 

and I can’t count on awake

but I can grow from doing 

I can learn from a mistake 

I dread the coming 

of the ticks of time

the thin red arm so precise 

while the big black line

is pushed by irresistible force 

past the staring numbers 

they mean everything and nothing 

I could do group of “Hospital Poems “. I laid in the bed and stared at the clock: two o’clock, three o’clock, four o’clock……