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The Holy Ghost is freely pinned as sin is from the Devilamongst the broken back pews of a somnambulant congregationdreaming of the post church pot luck buffet.Release it to the wild,it flies to heaven,anointing a stained-glass angel peeled from the wall as second.The angel says,”You must wrestle me,”I dream of catching the uncatchable,holding that one…
All life mother kneaded him from her ma’s-g’ma’s pain and joy,from the bodies who all knew her into the one she knew well,collected from all the raw bits lost, found, saved from breads baked-unbaked,while the yeast swelled her stomach and pocked her skin. She said, “Eat, child,”and he fed ‘till her flesh broke. In the…
Is it so terrible to mourn a mother,to cry for the ones that shut the door and never returned,those never equipped to nurture a newborn from birth to death,the ones who desperately wanted to be mothers but couldn’t be,those who lost a child or never wanted to be mothers but are—should this be a day…
I should have broken my back by nowwith my lupine spine, feet screaming as if in a wolf trap. My outrage prowls the low valleysearching the arid land for water to slack the thirst,the howl inside.Once there was real silencebut no answer.Now, rage is my lone truth.The lamb has been eaten.Nothing stays in my broken…
Brother, I await you outside the windowamongst the night traffic zoom and scent of pine,story sitting on the throat’s knife edge,the truth unable to roll out from blood fear. Mother, I feel your harsh breath outside my soul.Father, your praise is hidden in the hot stones.Brother, the moon slices you,tripling fear across the unforgettable,a memory…
I destroy the gold house inside my soul— the nova of light ongold archway, gold mantle,gold walls. The last bits of real places that once shined.l thought, forever in the aura of sun-shine on oncegold rooftop, gold windows, gold doors. Look in,search and see, find: black gold steeped in the darkburned down to ash ofgold…
It appears just weeks after the last tear,my mother’s sky blue dress on her life ghost:same walk, dove shape, soft voice, brown hair cut short-at least from behind, in the same love lightthat moved from donation bin, rack, to herin the way that the poor are damned to wear the dead’s clothes, hand me downs…
When I roam the real forestgrumpy apple trees spit their spoiled rotten children on my shoulders knowing I will collect them and mash their cores into cider.Their leaves refuse to form shadows nor shade me, letting the sun scorch my monk’s crown deep cardinal red.The weeping willows shed snickers not tears.The oaks refuse their goodness…
Read More "When I Am Among the Trees (not after the poem by Mary Oliver)"
As I exitthe world of green dinosaursfused from abandoned rusty automobiles and steaming in the sun,a child offered me a giant peachharvested from a Palisade treegrown in the valley’s katabatic winds. It tasted of harsh-sweet stolen pleasures,lust and greed and love and dried fruit,full of Ute tears and diverted waters,memories between prayers and laments buried…
