USA

katnchas@earthlink.net

Kinetics

You know what they say about a rolling stone—
that nothing clings to it.
As though the acquisition of moss were a virtue.
As though it were better to rest encumbered
than skip solitary down the face of a hill.

We make our choices.
There are storage spaces for what we cannot carry.
And everything that I have wanted to hold near
proved as ephemeral as smoke—
or as a sigh.

Postmodern

Illusion has become so artful,
I cannot count the times that I've been fooled.
Is there moisture beneath the potted ficus
in the corner? Are the petals of the peony
stiff and papery, or smooth and cool to touch?

Every day, history is airbrushed and preserved
on celluloid. Lessons are lost when it's revised
to turn out well.

My children have escaped now—it seems a
dream that they were ever small enough to
hide inside my kitchen cabinets, the sounds
of muffled giggling giving them away.

And you that morning over coffee,
crumpled newspapers, a hasty kiss.
false promises to return—
were you real?

© All Copyright, May 2001, Kathie Isaac-Luke.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.