More Things in Heaven and Earth
"Her verse has no philosophy," he said,
complaining of a poet who wrote just
of children, marriage, change, first love, lost trust,
of myth and metaphor, of dreams and dread.
He wanted systems, concepts, theory,
not needles weeping thread, not evidence
of late-night calls and etched-in-glass events
that make us want to be — or not to be.
Coming to Terms
She's known me forever; she's known me by rote
since she was my ether and I was her mote,
my her like no other, more soothing than Om.
Home is in mother, and mother is home.
Her term almost over, I cling to her hem.
Her heart is the mortar for her, me, and them.
Unmoored from her berth, we're remoter than Rome,
for home is in mother, and mother is home.
If you have any thoughts about these poems, Susan Mclean
would be pleased to hear them