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.
Tag: poem
The Beauty of Hands
Aesthetics of skin, nails, knuckles, bone
Does not exist in
The beauty of hands
Lending help when needed is seen.
Pulling a bloody tourniquet tight
in the midst of battle,
Swinging a hammer
to build a house,
Raking earth
to plant a garden,
Painting
a work of art,
Cradling
a child to sleep,
Caressing
a lover’s skin.
A lifetime of doing is the beauty of hands.
The Passing of Summer
The wind and rain stopped by last night, Had a few minor temper tantrums outside As I stood watching from the door. They slapped the trees limbs around a bit And kicked at bits of loose trash in the street. Nothing more violent than that. No pushing down trees. No pummeling hail. Rather calm for a storm. Yet it killed the heat of summer, Murdering it without a hint of passion And ushering in a cold windy day To begin the fall to winter. At dawn, I stand here, Warming myself With this cup of coffee, Mourning a summer That passed without passion.
Heart and Soul
Tell me a truth of burning flames. Better yet, Chant me all the truth Of a holy rosary. Or would you whisper a truth Of a head on a silver platter. Perhaps, you’d like to Express the truth Of a dance through the city. Or act out the truth In the washing of your hands. Could you do all that, Plus destroy a temple or two, And it be the truth Of your heart? I know you say it would But no bushes burn, No seas part, No lepers heal, No dead rise When you know nothing Of your own heart and soul.
Modern Prometheus becomes The Little Stranger
Originally posted on Braveandrecklessblog.com
So now we know, You told me I wasn’t, But I was— Your creation. Said you loved me Just the way I was— But was it true? Yes, I was perfect Just the way I was— You said, But you didn’t care for: My curly hair, My dresses, My high heels, My red lipstick. So, I became a cut out, Of the rest of my parts With the parts you inserted, A sewn together woman. Then electrified and brought back To life by a love you claimed Was for the true me. Now the parts you inserted Die away, shriveling at the lack Of your electricity. I stumble, A stiff-legged walk to your door, Shuck this graying shit and warm myself By the fire I create to burn These rigor mortised parts. Thus, I become something more akin To myself once again— That little stranger With curly hair, Wearing dresses, High heels, And signature whore red— I become My little one.
Monkey See Not
Truths we’d rather not see
Raked into the compost,
buried deep–
Used to feed vines,
growing twisted,
roping round,
A soul stilled
in one place.
Words in the Electronic Ages
What we know of words upon a page Read, learned over again until sated In the richness found. Then turn to the electronic blue haze Where even words resonate, echoing fade. For the sweetest lies, a believer craves. Then scrolling over plastic flowers dancing, The words of a lover’s refrain found Written once too often In wooing others On the same blank cards With pictures of bears. The words like Cheap plated jewelry’s shine Turn black in the bitterness On the day some thought Something pure, pristine was born. Then, finally, is it known the words Of the poetic, the romantic Are but rhetoric and lies Written and said More than once But promised For one. The gravity, the gravity A black hole.
Water
Turn
Breathe warmth
Rest comes easy now
Curled around you—
Poured would be better
Yes—
Become liquid
To be the bath water
Surrounding you
Or the water droplets of a shower
Cascading over you
To possess for a moment
The ability of water
To touch you everywhere at once
SMOKE THE CRAVING
I debate:
Should I buy
That pack of cigarettes?
God knows I want too.
The store clerk
Stares at me
As if I’ve lost my mind.
I nearly answer—
Yes, I have and other things too.
Please, God.
I just want to feel the smoke
Rush through my lungs.
Skimming, skipping, speeding
The way pictures crash the dam of my heart.
I am flooded.
I’d rather be flooded with waves of nicotine.
Yes, it’d be a blessing to drown in nicotine.
Reveling in the stench of smoke
Would help dull this taste of bitterness,
Would dull this craving for a sweetness
I can no longer have.
And why not?
What’s it all matter now?
A slow roll kind of Catholic suicide.
How long could it take?
I mean, really, at this stage?
“Ma’am, can I help you with somethin’ else?”
Says the clerk behind the counter.
I am still standing there,
The crazy lady,
Trying to wring the water out
Of the water bottle I just bought.
“No, thank you,” as I walk away.
So, no slow roll Catholic suicide.
At least, starting not today.
But this patch of bitter taste,
This patch of craving for a sweetness,
Are sewn with double stitched seams
On the underside
Of my skin.
The Well of Loneliness
Originally Posted on https://braveandrecklessblog.com
Searching for something
In this void
Of fatigue–
A tender touch
Or warm skin to lie against,
A hope to grasp
When against slick
Stone.
Hours pass.
Anger and sadness silently left
And closed the door.
But the heart is chambered
Like a shell,
Swirling down within itself
Until reaching a breaking point
Of being long overdrawn,
Overworked, over tired,
Over
Over
Over.
Still learning in the stillness
Of time mixed with languages
Neither known nor understood
At all.
When there be no common ground
To stand upon–
A start, a beginning is lost.
In the travels
To find new shores
In this age
Without directions
Or something resembling
The instruction manual.
Turn to ask a friend,
“How does that dialogue go again?”
But there is no answer
In the old cliché’ of “seek and ye shall find”
You’ve knocked upon the door
And no one answered.
Live days in monastic silence,
Find it difficult to voice an answer
To the Walmart clerk saying,
“Have a nice day!”
Every night
Crawl downward and in,
Say a small, silent fervent prayer—
“I will always miss you
And I will always love you.
May my soul find you.”
Waking in fragments
To find it is time
For glue and duct tape.
They fix anything
That needs to be held
Together
At the bottom
Of the well.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 