a beginning sort of day
crawled out of this morning;
i was blowing the dead leaves
from its still downy hair
when two new twinned
lives grinning arrived
in the backseat of
Somebody’s dreamcatcher
and with fingers like
microscopes
examined every
strand of me; i carried them
like pistols on each hip,
aimed at the world and all
the cries of its
renewal.
Awen’s footprint
i am a blade of grass
bent into muddied waters;
i am gravel displaced
by the pressure of loss;
i am glass become sand
become glass again:
the injunction of a clear singer,
the wisdom of the sea.
…..
Follow me uphill;
roll aside
the Sarsen stone set
over my
soul, unearthing
the well of stale
passion that
expires breath-
wise under damp
breasts and dry heat.
Find me a new
shrine to an old
desperation buried in clouds
of molded hope, somewhere
deep and high where i
can claw out and
lay down with pride
the four bloodied
chambers of this broken
faith.
metaphor for the middle of May
although near sunset i walk
the same barefoot circles
round the same gravel despair,
morning finds me
prying last autumn’s leaf fall
from the damp spring earth,
letting the soil breathe a
chance for the emergence of
new green.
unsounded lyric
Irrevocable
the sound of something dying deep inside me;
a dark rhythm, insistent
pounding of silence
that reads
lasciate ogne speranza,
one language not enough
to assuage
the piece of me
that now lies quiet
on a crag of sunburnt earth
close to the divine.
What remains
rages, essence and flame
spiraled higher because
I still breathe,
hardly knowing how but
I dance
barefoot
over mirror-shards
of who I have been,
defy you
to define me,
pick out the parts of my
blood,
the promise and power I alone
hold
for as long as I restrain
my doubt, refrain
from turning my head and
tripping
over might-have-beens.
negation
On a day two days after Palm Sunday,
there were no births, and,
therefore,
no deaths.
Instead I sat at my cold aluminum desk
and threw out words like pennies,
watched through grudged windows
the skeletons of trees endure.
