last night your hands held ( not me anymore )

each every fingers, on each other, no other thoughts come to their finger webs

each other, loosely, tightly, caressing

thought racing racing losing sleep as you turn your thoughts

to grandchildren, children from daughters who do not call, write touch you any more, silence — Monica cries on Zooms when she sees

your face, in your age you now look like her so, tears flow as lonely children without mother

Sara, your child, in her thirties is anxious over her losing her Queens Astoria apartment home as roommates fight to lonely deaths of relationship, of life, tears come as quietly as quickly as anxious, angry thoughts

these thoughts are your children; I had I have no lovemaking touch in their birthd

I cannot even wipe one away


a poem, sarah’s tent

sarah’s tent

sarah’s tent

from Genesis 24, “Then the servant told Isaac all he had done. 67 Isaac brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah, and he married Rebekah. So she became his wife, and he loved her; and Isaac was comforted after his mother’s death.”

in sarah’s home, her tent, a palace of rich fabrics, soft fabrics, generous

loving and painful moments, where her child, her one & only child – Issac, was

conceived in faith, within her old age, & with,

with Abraham’s broken,



after hearing of the coming promise it is her tent, within it and herself, she laughs

inwardly at the Lord God’s promise, yet, yet

after hearing,

she invites her husband, Abraham, to leave his tent once more, & to once again, & to enter hers, it

is all she has to

give … to give…

Issac, sarah loves Issac; she is his home, dying, she leaves him this, her


her beauty, her life & when Issac weds Rebekah, it is here & sarah, though


blesses him, her, them with a faith, a covering, a tent

the counsellors’ lament

meditations on 13 ways of listening


Diana came to door with ice tears, traversing her cheeks, living

sorrow streaking as early autumn black squirrels, all around her crescent

moon face,

“ He took pictures of me as I was walking down the street, that woman saw me and cried ‘Carmen, Carmen, bring the camera. She’s here!’

coming for tea and love, empathy and sympathy over the, a dead marriage( 49 years; six children; millions in savings lost, cashed out ) the house of a lifetime no

longer hers,


49 years, or 7,

a month of days or a


does it matter? the hurt always returns; time heals nothing; nothing

even fading memory, dementias,

are betrayers, as in Porter’s story ‘the jilting of granny weatherall’

no thing is weathered


all is absorbed in tears, sobs, utterances of pains that return

as waves to surfed in the seas

seven deadly sins; seven seas; 7


seven ages of man; seven dwarves

the counsellor cannot tell one dwarf from the other; one sea, one sin, one horcrux from another

tears all run the same,

as waves, emotions engulfing,

enclosing emotions

tears run the same

poem, risk

the risk of birth, is a selected book of Christ-poems given to me, the first is the title poem, ‘The Risk of Birth’
by Madeleine L’EngleThis is no time for a child to be born,
With the earth betrayed by war & hate
And a comet slashing the sky to warn
That time runs out & the sun burns late.

That was no time for a child to be born,
In a land in the crushing grip of Rome;
Honor & truth were trampled to scorn—
Yet here did the Savior make His home.

When is the time for love to be born?
The inn is full on the planet earth,
And by a comet the sky is torn—
Yet Love still takes the risk of birth…. or this 


I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring –

afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy

in the raw wind of the new world.

from Louise Gluck

… but

each poem is a cry of, for, risk and…

you took risk coming to my flat after you rejected me from your family party, celebrating Sean’s birth, after multiple lupus induced miscarriages

( Genie and Dave’s only child, Eugenia kept risking )

you came, we kissed, you went to my bath and changed to your skin, apologising as you emerged for the slight scars on your skin

you risked, for a birth promise,

and receiving, giving births followed

you risked,

a son

my son died when he was

22, on Mother’s Day weekend 1996

military call up accident he was driving to a regiment call from one of his girl friend’s house; his girl friend’s car was lent to him ( though she knew his license was suspended – her father was a big wig New Jersey judge who thought we would sue her – we didn’t meet his expectations)

after we got his body from Fort Bragg North Carolina and returned to Nee York, the memorial service was a hot mess

departed, separted from his wife of two years she showed and so did two diamond ringed fiancés, one from Georgia, the other from Texas

they didn’t know each other

I asked them to leave as they got their early like us, his family,

adopted, abused from before birth

Joey needed a healing I couldn’t give or

get from loving

caregivers, not Takers ( first part )Make the king a winner, God; the day we call, give us your answer. David, Psalm 20, the message

from my birth, as soon as I can remember,
I called on someone to

love, care,


hold me

barbara, I gave all, thoughts, actions, words, presents
she needed more, so she stopped,we stopped
deadso dead, when she said she loved me as she was unfaithful, I picked her up by her neck and lifted up a few inches and said, ‘never say that to me again’
and that is is the last time she said, or I heard it

grandma’s house

we are nowhere from’
rose’s son got a song deal from Bruno Mars &is leaving for LA; Rose has been taking careof
her elderly mother in Middletown NY and she needs her son to help her care for mom

She doesn’t know what she is going to dowhen he is gone….
( and what will you, or your sisters, or anyone else do, when my dementia )comes ?
( and it will )
then, will I be like our aunt terry?, locked in Parkinson’s, dementia, with one daughter dead a year, the other whose accounting is of the days she has left to care for her mother?
nope, I have a plan daughter!I ( and your mom ) Am  Going To The
 ‘we are nowhere from’
this is where all the old folks with blessed dementia go 
we all got dementia and we are all,‘happy together’ not remembering those who cared or who did not care for us
we are, it is the, 
‘we are nowhere from’

forgetting is better than all else forgetting is better than forgivenessforgetting what and who I was, am, 
heavenly forgotten 

I am leaving grandma’s house