angels call, singing for a while,
watching us,
aping things they’d heard, saw,
obsessing over things
we tossed away–
time, primarily–
angels lost feathers, attempting to understand
our tossing away time like used tissues, soiled food tins–
when we held little.
Tell the angels
To tuck away deep inside their chests
Such a cotton candy fire of winter sky raging,
Roiling in clouds there
Undeterred by storms
Or answers
Or truths
Provide no magic, no elixir
For human loss or longing,
Aching and confined in such beauty.
I take the truth
for it is mine,
rolling myself in it until
protected from the acid of the asinine
that drips from the pens, the tongues
of many and power,
of those we call elite,
of those we once called—
friends.
I grieve the words spoken
by asinine tongues
and actions taken
by hate filled hearts
that do not comprehend the words
we were taught—
“love your neighbor as yourself”—
The second commandment.
Into fall’s hands
Dreams of summer scatter
Chilled to death.
Fall strides to winter,
Claiming death of all living
Dreams rolled inward— green.
Winter sulks away
Spring green rising from within
Our winter hearts.
Spring arouses summer
Dreams awaken from a soul,
Heated imaginings.
Into fall’s hands
Summer leaps with all her dreams,
Scattered leaves to air.
I knelt before God
as the earth was formed.
For ages I have been here,
spirit of stone unmoving,
waiting above the forest land.
I am the tonnage of stones,
living veiled behind swirling mists.
Yet, I am billions of stones,
existing beyond the veil.
I press the earth for meaning
when I hear the children of earth wail
of suffering through centuries.
I rise above the peace of forest land,
lifting the tonnage of anger I carry.
I am the billions of stones now,
moving beyond the veil.
I have risen, the world,
carrying justice
in the weight of stone,
the children of earth will not be moved.
Behind the veil, I am the tonnage of stones.
I will retreat there when this time is done.
This week’s prompt ~ Dance
For visually challenged writers, the image shows a pale sun piercing the mists above a green path through a golden field, leading into the center of a circle of stones.
A mist of souls weaves among the stones
A dance between grasses of green and gold
Breezes chant in ancient secret runes,
Speaking in tongues of priestesses and druids–
A single soul leaps toward a shrouded sun,
And something in our blood no longer runs—
At all fluid.
I wanted to run among the wild ones.
Live with them among the mountains.
Rub muzzle against muzzle.
Eat sweet grasses.
Enjoy golden warmth upon my back.
Let my soul and spirit rest
Among the trees with the wild ones.
But it was not to be.
My heart could not slow enough
To contain their peace.
And so, I sought the white ones at the sea.
They crashed about restlessly.
Truly wild they were, as they raced continually.
Their cacophonous pacing furious, relentless.
Yes, these wild white stormy ones were in keeping
With my heart, a raging irregular and brutal pace.
Image from Dreamtime.com
The science of flight
Broken, stripped down
Into the realism of words.
The dryness of what happens:
Lift and torque,
Drag and propulsion—
All things the ancients
Dreamed of mastering.
And so, we moderns have:
The smallest of Cessna,
The most enormous Airbuses,
The cavernous military transports,
Such technology and science
To destroy the magic.
Until watering the garden
On a summer evening
And turning to see
A tiny green hummingbird
Stick out his chest in pride
At having mastered
Standing still
While flying.
At sunrise over water,
Remembering a dream
Of finding ecstasy
Within tears,
Things neither given
Nor felt in years,
Linked by all the fears
To form decades of a life
Lived like a stranger
In my own skin.
I have stood
Since the dawn
At this ocean’s edge
Waiting, waiting.
And now at noon
The rain begins.
Fierce pelting blows
Washing me clean
Of all I know
Or dare to dream.
For living continues
Within my own skin
From the shaking dirge cries of birth To the desire for ease in the between, Before the elemental breath rattles at death, We are lost in cacophonous sighs of daily life, Choosing to turn away From moments appearing as iridescent sun rays As if God's fingers reached Between the clouds To touch the earth. Yes, we turn away, Notice nothing, Pick up kids, Fix dinner, Do laundry, A trip to Wal-Mart, And to work, The mundane of every day, Yes, it must be done, To hurry toward the waiting, While living holding sand, Until expelling the elemental breath before death.
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