Not for the Godless

Every year it arrives
This stained hardwood hamper
This time of year

Is not for the Godless
Each year a member of my dynasty dies
My children do not recreate themselves

And I am wistful, waiting,
For babies, blundering, malleable
Quivering by snatching sterling

And I will feel virtuous once again
As babies babble and I whisper magical,
Wonderful words. I am someone

To recall in slumber
In conversation. Her home was a planet
Of cheerfulness, of fairytales

They will say
Of wholesome banquets
Of miniature battlements

And stories that spring
From my boundless imagination
I illuminate their path

But my colossal children
Stand tall as poppies and independent
Heedless, needless of me

Magical Thinking

Decades of magical thinking
Have brought me to this
Stepping out of life
Into the pictures
Hanging on the walls
Of the doctor’s waiting room

Imitation
Self-flagellation
Raised in a bad town
North of the border
My malnourished mind

It shrieks
It shrieks
It shrieks

It cannot be felt
It cannot be tasted
It hovers over me
Misshapen, mean spirited,
It annihilates my soul
Commandos hands all over me
They slowly lift their guns

But in those hills
Within those landscape
There is a peaceful writer’s day
Sun shines
Its rays fall
I imbibe hot, sugary tea
And seek refuge in
A valley to the West
In which I avoid
The massacre of my heart.