HEART
OCTOBER MOON
a stemless, blue
Cornflower
crowned in sorcery,
its taproot deep
in humus of space,
its fingers,
pale as the face
of the moonflower,
weaving earthward
through stars
in search of
a backyard swing
of lovers.
Cornflower
crowned in sorcery,
its taproot deep
in humus of space,
its fingers,
pale as the face
of the moonflower,
weaving earthward
through stars
in search of
a backyard swing
of lovers.
10TH YEAR MEMORIAL
…and what is it to the lone man
kneeling there before the cold stone,
his hand placed on an etched name
for its warmth,
that I should weep aloud, alone,
safe in walled distance, excerpted
from the malediction of self-destruction,
unless it be that in lone grief lies
surety that compassion is not dead?
That the onus of guilt I suffer is that
I have not changed the world?
kneeling there before the cold stone,
his hand placed on an etched name
for its warmth,
that I should weep aloud, alone,
safe in walled distance, excerpted
from the malediction of self-destruction,
unless it be that in lone grief lies
surety that compassion is not dead?
That the onus of guilt I suffer is that
I have not changed the world?
A PSALM
I would not touch a petal of the rose
had You not given me the sense of joy
and pain that my heart knows when fingers slip
and know the piercing of the thorn. I would
not dare to lift my face to sun had You
not given me the knowledge that the rain
makes brighter yet its rays, nor sipped of streams
had You not blessed them first.
Today I crossed
the faintest trickle of a spring that grew
as it meandered, watched the sand along
its sides give way to water's strength. I asked
if that was fair, and You were soft to say
that far beyond the distance I could see,
it would be river rushing into arms
outstretched, a mother ocean welcoming
its child into eternal peace. I will
not stoop again to drink of any cup
unless it be the living waters of
Your love, or sing the notes of any song
unless it be to praise Your Holy Name.
Published RCPS 2007
THE MANY COLORS OF TRADITION
She breaks tradition on her special day
Walking through arched blooms alone. No power,
No bridal dream; no words that we can say
Will move her to the gown saved for this hour.
High-necked, tight-wristed, gloves to complement,
Fine satin trimmed in handmade lace and pearls,
White, creamed by time, still holding the faint scent
Of Grandma’s lilac, saved for her girl’s girls.
Her face approaches, calm as joy allows.
The posies gently held, and the surprise
Erasing questions on her parents’ brows
Is Grandma’s locket glinting in their eyes,
And Grandma’s radiance, come shining through
A pair of knee-torn jeans in faded blue.
A Galaxy of Verse, 2005
THE DOG TROT
A hunter’s moon, pale as sundown,
lights its candle as night darkens.
It stations itself over
the plank porch sound of chairs
pushed back against a dog trot wall.
Phrases, snatches, song insinuations
drift through the dimming of day--
not the words, but the dashes,
question marks, the punctuations,
the ta-tums of conversation
sifting through the fuzzyyness
of a dreamt Canaan.
Autumn, glistening
its amber leaves toward winter.
Crescendos dying to murmurings,
laughter dwindling down like prayers.
Slow scrape of chairs, settling--
Moses’ staff
held high to bank the water
for our crossing.
A hunter’s moon, pale as sundown,
lights its candle as night darkens.
It stations itself over
the plank porch sound of chairs
pushed back against a dog trot wall.
Phrases, snatches, song insinuations
drift through the dimming of day--
not the words, but the dashes,
question marks, the punctuations,
the ta-tums of conversation
sifting through the fuzzyyness
of a dreamt Canaan.
Autumn, glistening
its amber leaves toward winter.
Crescendos dying to murmurings,
laughter dwindling down like prayers.
Slow scrape of chairs, settling--
Moses’ staff
held high to bank the water
for our crossing.
HYMN OF THE AGES
(Amazing Grace)
We hear a music void
of what inspires
when it contends with
the amazing grace of lines that lift
from valleys, man’s desires, and calms
his restless seas. From every place,
be it the novice voice
with golden gifts, or those
one thousand strong in perfect tone,
or one alone who by the window
lifts a hurt and weary day
up to the throne,
the hymn’s long fingers, filled with promise,
play the strings of brokenness and grief
till peace gives back
what has been lost along the way:
the truth that self
is found in self’s release!
May those who sing
of life’s cacophony accept with praise
John Newton’s symphony.
1st, A Galaxy of Verse, Pub. 2005
We hear a music void
of what inspires
when it contends with
the amazing grace of lines that lift
from valleys, man’s desires, and calms
his restless seas. From every place,
be it the novice voice
with golden gifts, or those
one thousand strong in perfect tone,
or one alone who by the window
lifts a hurt and weary day
up to the throne,
the hymn’s long fingers, filled with promise,
play the strings of brokenness and grief
till peace gives back
what has been lost along the way:
the truth that self
is found in self’s release!
May those who sing
of life’s cacophony accept with praise
John Newton’s symphony.
1st, A Galaxy of Verse, Pub. 2005
A TIME TO KEEP, A TIME TO CAST AWAY
When the time comes,
she will choose the season.
Not now, when sun defies summer clouds
and heat rises from cotton rows like marcelled hair
and the willow weeps water back to the pond
that cools its feet. Not when
cellophane dragonfly wings
sleep on hot sands, cohabiting with geese
seeking the same shade.
When the first blue norther
crisps the air to crackle and races her
down the hill, the call will come.
She will travel Highway 75 only so far,
turn off on Little Creek Road where ruts,
once dusted dry as talcum,
mirror cold sun; where stubble fields,
shorn of golden ears, lie in wait.
Entering by way of footprints left
in that generational time of longing to leave,
she will cross the threshold of fallow fields
that smell of mossy loam
and crack of a leather whip cutting air,
and set up house where dreams
still wait at the door sill.
She will unwrap a ripe pear
from old headlines, and rock back
in the swing of a dark porch
lit by cold flame of stars,
wrap her sweater tight,
and wait for the stories to begin.
Ist—Published, PST 2010-11
AFTERWARD
Busy Martha, did she,
in her hover,
after she sponged his face,
not see the glow
rimming the wash bowl,
the washing sponge dripping with light
that she could have lifted
like a candle
to filter the darkening room?
And Mary, in her quiescence,
did she sit at his unwrapped feet
dreaming, gathering
the glimmer of platinum stars from his toes
for her auburn hair,
embracing the liberated,
forgetting the Liberator?
And Lazarus--in all the years
we are not told of,
did he stumble, stray the path
even with the light of divinity
leading the way--did he forget,
or did he cringe
before dusk, evenings,
dreading the day of re-entry,
fearing that the second call
might not come?