Tonight I cannot see the stars or moon.Clouds have taken from my view all light. I cannot see my hands or feet but know that they exist.This Stone is here against my chest but nothing else is known. I am invisible. All is gone, except my voiceasking who is speaking in this darkness. I had a name—some syllables I answered to.but on this hill I am nothing but a being struggling to exist. Do flowers know their names?Do trees...

Even in this darkness I see a light inside of me.I see an orange sunrise above the sea,or is it setting?I see it turn the water red.I see it gleaming over ripples.I see a beach where I am standing,looking out beyond horizons,then looking backto where my footsteps in the sand have brought me.I see gulls gliding high above the waterdivethen riselifting what I cannot see.Looking there into the light,I see a candle dripping w...

Our crime was anarchy. Ignoring laws, building fires, blocking streets, shouting, “NO! NO! in the market place. We climbed their walls, threw stones at their houses, sat at their gates and would not budge our hearts and minds. Again and again their soldiers came to drag us by our hair to dungeons, but could not keep us there. We were their sons and daughters, but had no homes. We could not pledge allegiance to their flag,...

The shrill sound of the tea pot screaming shattered Max’s reverie. He was remembering when he and Rosie met forty years ago. He looked down at the cup, breathing a deep sigh, remembering the vision of the two of them rowing down the Charles River that May morning, the night after their first date, the first of many before they married, both of them still in their senior years of college, he at Harvard, she at Radcliffe, a...

Tears are words I cannot speak.They come from deep inside this acheand say what I can’t say.Sometimes I wish they would not comeinto the corner of my eye,then roll along my noseand touch my lips.I wish my tongue would never taste againthe liquid from that source inside.Sometimes I wish I did not thinkor feeland like this Stone,could know a quietness insideand be—just be.Sometimes I wishthat I could hold my thoughtsand fee...

Looking up these nights at you,Dear Stars,my eyes,my thoughts,my soulreaching out to where we touch in space,where the forces of our orbitsintersecthigh above my life,where we are all one familytrying hard to live in harmony,struggling to be opento the wisdomspoken in a language without words.Looking up, I listen to the silenceof your fires surrounding me,calling through the vastness of the universe we share.Oh Starsand m...

When Dusk comes through the sky,her grey cape flowingfrom her back,she dims the dayand in the twilight air,the red clouds lowagainst the western sky,she brings the nightand sprinkles you, Dear Stars,as far as she can throw.Some say the night was oncea black-winged birdwho swallowed dayas if it were a wormand in the sky she’d lay a silver eggwe call the moon.Who knows what tale explains,for sure, how we,along with all the...

Our river was a miracle,(which one is not).It came to us because of thirst.It came because our land was crackedand brown and barren as the desert.It came because we needed her,that’s our belief,foolish as it sounds.I told my friends the taleabout the River Godsearching for his daughterand how he lifted up his rodin gratitude for telling himhow I saw Zeus stealing her,how I defied the great god’s warning not to tell a soul...

If I let go this rock would crush my bones and end this punishment. The gods who put me here think they have control but do not know that they have none. I keep this stone alive and make it more than stone. I shove and keep up this momentum to know another day of work. I choose to take another step and keep this weight against my chest, my ribs, my arms, my neck, the effort of my legs, my breath. my bulging veins, and yes...

Almost there, almost to the place l never reach, almost as high as I can climb and lift this stone. I see the crest-- then look down at my feet, my sweaty arms and chest and think how it will feel when I am there at last where I have never been before. How will it feel to know I’ve beaten all the odds— to lift my arms in triumph and know the Gods aren’t laughing at me now-- now that I have defeated them, now that I am smi...

This stone is more than stone,more than weight against my arms,my shoulders, my neck--more than a stone my legs must shove,my hands must grasp,my lungs must grunt into--more than a moan inside my soulthat comes from knowing there is no escape from where I am,from who I am.This is the burden of my being here,this knowing that my place beneath the stars means endless work,means looking out into the universeof moons and suns...

Note: Several people have asked why I use the name Sisyphus and so I’ve decided to publish several of the poems over the next few days from my book length poem based on the myth. You will see that all of the poems take place with Sisyphus pushing the huge stone up the steep hill while singing his story to the stars.DEAR STARSDear Stars, I toss these words into the skylike a juggler tosses balls he cannot catch.I don’t kno...

Note: This is a little experimental story.Mortimer was seated on a small sofa in the living room, when Myrtle came in from the kitchen and sat on the sofa next to him. She wore a blue floral dress and a pearl necklace. Her gray hair was tied in a bun. Mortimer wore a blue, pin stripped suit with a gray tie. His white hair was parted in the middle and neatly combed. He was reading the newspaper and had one leg folded over...

It was so long ago, so long ago. Maybe I should have known better, but I didn’t. I was young, innocent and ignorant. Live and learn, they say, but learn. Now look at me, tired, dark bags under my eyes, bony hands with skin like dry fish scales, sagging breasts and look at these skinny legs with varicose veins and hairy as a gorilla or something. Not like the old days when I had a body like a goddess. I remember how he’d c...

No one believes this story when I tell it, but it’s as true as a black cup of coffee on a winter morning. I’m used to weird looks and I know what they’re thinking, but it doesn’t matter to me, although, I’m not sure what I’d say if somebody told me they were personal friends with God.I was fifteen when we first met. I hated school. I was shy. I had a face full of pimples and a crush on Barbara Cushner, who didn’t know I e...