Wednesday, November 27, 2013

In
the
between
spaces, you taught
me how to rest with the canyon,
how to wrestle with the canyon, and still, how to love,
within the incomprehensible
divide; and to find
the hidden
spaces
here,
too.
She
talks
about
the weather
on the street corner,
and how you've got to accept good
and evil from God's hand. When the light turns green, I leave
with my two-buck benediction.
Selfish on my part;
she'll prob'ly
spend it
on
booze.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Child
of
laugher,
were the beams
you carried plucked from
your own bright eye? Did you stumble
underneath their weight, climbing the hill of sacrifice?
Trembling in the dark, did you sweat
drops of blood, or were
you silent
as a
young
ram?

Monday, November 25, 2013

First
frost:
the year
snaps shut. All
the summer's humid promises
are frozen and cracked. They say that hell is just getting
what you want; I have dreamed of this.
August taunts me, vows
to return.
Later.
Not
now.

Friday, November 22, 2013

O
my
little
one, you are 
so small. There is room
for you to perch in the narrow
spaces at the center, and sing. Sing clear and sweet, child,
until great shafts of light break through
and the mountains move;
the kingdom
belongs
to
you.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Evening

The sun with golden fingers lingers,
stroking each long blade of grass.
Cold dusk creeps along behind her;
evening comes to pass.
O
my
little
heart, soft wings
feathery with hope
and fear and dread, be steady now.
Find the wind's sure pulse, and beat, beat
the rising rhythms of the gentle air, and beat, beat,
let your fluttering find firmness
soaring light. With faith
and love, keep
steady
my
heart.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Those
who
can, should.
All the rest
of us must teach, teach,
until we finally start to learn
that to teach is to enter the learning, stoop to squeeze
through the tiny, child-sized passage
where the kingdom is
glimpsed through the
needle's
bright
eye.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Dusk
comes
when dust
encrusted
light descends, and bends
the clouds in loud, fantastic hues;
cues for this proud day
to end, just
as all
days
must.

Friday, November 15, 2013

In
bleak
silence
we wander
under flame and cloud,
achingly hungry, and tired of 
bewildering bread. We crave yeast. Who knew redemption
would involve so many blisters,
and so few onions?
Even tears
might quench
this 
thirst.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

We
went
to see
the dragons.
Enormous cables
suspended their bones from the roof.
Safe behind velvet
ropes, we gape:
their fire
gone
out.



Old
brass
labels
spell ancient
words long rusty, cold.
We shiver.
Dragons
are
big.


Long
dead,
stripped of
flesh, fire, and
fable;
now
they


 are
 quite



safe.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

It's
not
as though
you can leave
the leaving behind.
Stay or go,
you still
have
left.

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

O
poor
spirit,
you are blessed.
In your rise and fall
remember that the one who sits
in the heavens laughs, and his laughter is the laughter
of a tender father watching
his children play; but
only if
that's who
you
are.

Monday, November 11, 2013

First
your
brother
Lazarus,
then you, bursting from
your alabaster tomb, poured out
your unbound glory
at the feet
that bring
good
news.

Friday, November 8, 2013

What
is
language
for? Why do
our groans and grunts and
squealings coalesce into words?
Gathering like snowballs, the phrases tumble faster
faster down the steep slopes of mind,
melting in the end,
 to form slow
rivers
we
share.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

The
sign
will be
your silence,
and her song unleashed,
pouring out when the Spirit comes.
Hear the little Galilean sing; the poor are filled,
the lofty emptied. Now you must
deny your name, scratch
out the words:
his name
is
John.
The sibyl with her leaves of maddening verse,
Enchanted by her captivating curse;
Nor she nor I can say which one is worse:
    the silentness of sight
    or wind of words.

Cassandra sits with her among the leaves,
And Ariadne, weeping as she weaves;
Their sisterhood, this common curse of Eve's:
    the silentness of sight
    and wind of words.

Mother of God, whose face is ever bent
Toward thy Son's tree, assist me to repent,
That I may walk the way in which you went,
    who held in silent night
    both Wind and Word.

Monday, November 4, 2013

Woman's Work

Some things, like space, with all its sundry duties,
come with every human's territory,
and for a few, who grace their space with beauties
sweet, serene, the home's a field of glory.
I am human, too, and tread on floors
which must be swept to clear a space to think.
We all do all, but each from different cores
of strength from which to work; mine's not the sink
or vacuum. Eve herself did not at first
have clothes to wash; I do because she shares
as help meet in the woes with which man's cursed.
But these are human, not just female cares.
    We each must have our own ill-fitting labor,
    as well as strengths with which to help our neighbor.

Friday, November 1, 2013

To
glimpse
the thoughts
that formed God's
works so wise, to wrap
your mind around the thing that stands
sure and certain, ancient patterned plans; to  know beauty
of earth and skies, spiraling out from the still center, first you must dance with the quick-bright
ever-moving images, and learn to learn from their
learning, lean on their leaning on
you; in that image,
see the sight
of Him
who 
sees.

Apology

I was very good at saying sorry,
but I always knew that good was not enough.
Over and over, I'm sorry, I'm sorry for
never enough, never sorry enough, and plus,
all these annoying apologies: I'm sorry
for them as well. It was never enough. I wrapped
myself in comfortingly righteous rags;
no hope for enough, but at least it might be more.

No more. I have heard the creaking of stones, and the voice
from the cleft of the rock, felt the steady rhythmic whoosh
of blood again. The time has come to fold
the swaddling graveclothes neatly in the cave.
My righteousness was shit. True holiness
was pulsing through the mercy I once scorned.