Hobo's Poems

I told my friend the grief is like a flame that is always lit within me. It burns every day inside Jennifer Dawn. It's intensity rises with the anniversary - one side of the flame, a personal pool of hot lava frustration drop in to revolt. Yet it burns peacefully most of all because within me is always the flame of love, an endless supply of listen, connect and receive. I swim in the bottomless pool of peaceful water. Is it two flames? One flame changes? Is it two rooms, two pools in my heart? I told my friend the grief is like the Olympic flame, and I discover there are two flames inside the torch. The yellow one burns cooler and is prone to extinguish in the wind and rain, but there is a smaller, hotter flame which is capable of relighting the other one. I cherish this flame(s) and all it is from when I climb out of bed in the morning to when I place my head on my pillow at night. I honor the pain. It is a symbol to me of celebrating life ...

to be inside the swirl of blue the ocean wave of us the tunnel of wish the spark of possibility the drive deep within please keep her here  nonononononononono this burn in my stomach moving up through my throat the pressure hands squeeze my neck no breathe and claim her change my life

My daily routine - I reach out to grab your hand the one I can't see in the crowd or on the train. I seize your elbow anywhere. I think about you and you arrive on the R at Lexington and 59th, climbing up the stairs with me to 95 degrees on W. 79th and Broadway. It can't be five years. Another day this month, no ventilation on the subway. Switch cars, wait to feel the cool air come on. The Spanish minister, the announcement about delays, sounds amplify disturb peace while I blare Le Tigre. It can't be five years.

Don't be sad for me for the body that is not here. I still have my mother. Okay, be sad for me for the gone away of her body. Thank you, my mother for teaching me love lives in missing senses there is nothing missing.

The same couple sits in the same corner. They need more napkins. She gets some. The other woman clears her throat. They drink lattes and read newspapers. The same couple sits in the same corner. They discuss the news like it's their kitchen while we stand in line at 8:25am to get our coffee to go. Her hair is redder on another day. I like her summer peasant blouse. The other woman with silver curls blends into the gray coffee shop walls. She is reading aloud to Red. The same couple sits in the same corner. Today they have switched seats. The woman with silver curls is reading aloud again. This morning Red is wearing seafoam, which makes her red hair pop. I like her egg-shaped ring. I notice how they stack their saucers on top of their cups to keep the liquid hot. I'm moving up in line to get my drink so I can't keep looking over until tomorrow.

Rain doesn't stop  Grief  Or  Desire to pursue Push through Dance in freedom  To be  In the streets of Soho  Out the door of Broome Street And Crosby  The intersection of this chapter  Of my life  Traffic backed up Horns blaring Lights blurring  Like our stories  Our strengths Running to get to the other side  Of being  In the wet wonder  The race to rush  Exhilaration  No one is stopping me  I am me  I am parts of my parents I am individually  In me-ness Meeting you  Holding your  Hand  My friend  As you see  Navigate  The streets  Of your own world  Alive   I will go out  In my tears  Singing in the rain 

Drawn to the sound of rain,  the soft sweet call to relax, rest in myself, reach down and be. Water is calm wet wonder.  Birds mix their melodies. Their songs move me to smile,  relish more self-love. Their songs encourage me to be still, go inside  my internal dance.  My mom was motivated on mornings by  the sound of birds singing  outside her window  at homes in New Mexico  and New Jersey. The birds help me to fly while  I sit still and listen. The rain  showers me. I'm dry but cleansed. Green through back porch  Coolness among tree limbs  Bushels of pink and orange marigolds  Pop They are my Dream Story Boxes. Life  Surrounded by Comfort in Rocking chairs  on Rugs  Through screen doors  Inside and outside  At the same time  What makes this world different  Than the Block Lodge  or Red Room?...