The pianist's fingers touch. The keys
respond with terrible resonance.
What we think we understand
is capable of killing us.
Ivory has its own story. The quiet
deep density of teeth, of tusk.
The way it captures and releases
sound, its secrets.
O! let light and love, how it seduces
us tremble so exquisitely.
1/27/2008
Parables
What was God thinking
giving this man a tongue,
a word, a weapon? A game
of chess, perhaps
a crafty succession
of lessons.
giving this man a tongue,
a word, a weapon? A game
of chess, perhaps
a crafty succession
of lessons.
The Butcher's Wife
You made me watch
in the room that was made
for gutting chickens and goats.
You made me watch
you
cutting their throats, your hands
the color of strawberries. Your face
hard as bullet-proof glass, thick, opaque
and soundproof. Eyes like gravel. And how
through my nausea, I thought of sex,
how similiar the feelings: fear, then horror,
the downward, slick, graceful then upstroke
of the knife tearing through skin, muscles
and tendons, splitting the explosive artery.
How the body falls from the hands, quickly
as if filled with stones. Its head twisted back,
its mouth filled with blood. The way that you skinned it
pulling the feathers and fur, angled your blade
and expertly cut away.
in the room that was made
for gutting chickens and goats.
You made me watch
you
cutting their throats, your hands
the color of strawberries. Your face
hard as bullet-proof glass, thick, opaque
and soundproof. Eyes like gravel. And how
through my nausea, I thought of sex,
how similiar the feelings: fear, then horror,
the downward, slick, graceful then upstroke
of the knife tearing through skin, muscles
and tendons, splitting the explosive artery.
How the body falls from the hands, quickly
as if filled with stones. Its head twisted back,
its mouth filled with blood. The way that you skinned it
pulling the feathers and fur, angled your blade
and expertly cut away.
The Trauma of Ignorance
When you reach the edge,
the history professor said...
his students squirming
in wooden chairs, tapping
their feet, watching the hands
of the big industrial clock.
When you reach the edge
be sure to bring a parachute.
No one was listening.
Now I knew that most of us
would die from falling-
an unplanned, careless
violent ending.
the history professor said...
his students squirming
in wooden chairs, tapping
their feet, watching the hands
of the big industrial clock.
When you reach the edge
be sure to bring a parachute.
No one was listening.
Now I knew that most of us
would die from falling-
an unplanned, careless
violent ending.
All Brides are Like Paper
White, like paper. Frail
like paper. Blank
like paper before
the pen takes
its innocence;
like trusting brides
who have no idea
how the ink
of men-
written
across their faces,
their bared, opened chests,
their beautiful, pristine
untouched wilderness-
will change them.
like paper. Blank
like paper before
the pen takes
its innocence;
like trusting brides
who have no idea
how the ink
of men-
written
across their faces,
their bared, opened chests,
their beautiful, pristine
untouched wilderness-
will change them.
Exhaling
Tongue like fire, throat lined
with kindling to drive the flame
down to the furnace. Ash-winged
the soul flies up and out
remembering nothing.
Is this what you wanted-
to forget the trauma
of leaving?
Still warm in its vein, blood
struggles to remember, to move,
to resist the coolness which spreads
so quickly from the smoldering bricks
like steam of everything life
breathed in, burnt up
and exhaled.
with kindling to drive the flame
down to the furnace. Ash-winged
the soul flies up and out
remembering nothing.
Is this what you wanted-
to forget the trauma
of leaving?
Still warm in its vein, blood
struggles to remember, to move,
to resist the coolness which spreads
so quickly from the smoldering bricks
like steam of everything life
breathed in, burnt up
and exhaled.
1/26/2008
Forces of Nature
Down by the train-tracks, I found
an arrowhead. Triangular shaped, its body
speckled like a sparrow egg. And small
in the palm of my hand as my fist
folded over completely.
My father worked for the railroad. Rock Island
before it became the Southern Pacific.
He brought us flattened quarters he set on the tracks
to show us how heavy a train could be, what weight
could do if you harnessed it.
In the dark, trainwhistles called
like coyotes, one steel animal to another.
What they were saying: this is the sound
of weight, of damage.
When I showed my father the arrowhead,
he rubbed the sharp edges between his fingers,
pointed out the irregular chips on its surface.
Imagine, he said, stone against stone,
the force of a man against nature.
an arrowhead. Triangular shaped, its body
speckled like a sparrow egg. And small
in the palm of my hand as my fist
folded over completely.
My father worked for the railroad. Rock Island
before it became the Southern Pacific.
He brought us flattened quarters he set on the tracks
to show us how heavy a train could be, what weight
could do if you harnessed it.
In the dark, trainwhistles called
like coyotes, one steel animal to another.
What they were saying: this is the sound
of weight, of damage.
When I showed my father the arrowhead,
he rubbed the sharp edges between his fingers,
pointed out the irregular chips on its surface.
Imagine, he said, stone against stone,
the force of a man against nature.
Recovery
What mouth cries to feed upon
what muffles it? Please,
don't let this happen to me-
to be overcome by becoming,
to be persuaded by learned fears.
Don't let this happen to me.
First, the bird sings.
Satisfies the tree. The winds.
Or did the dream of singing
break and wounded, choke upon
its own sad beauty? Secondly, we live
and so we live gorgeously. The merits
of our stories, the strings that shake
and quiver beneath our calloused fingers
shape our destiny. Every chord
be true, be humble, be music.
what muffles it? Please,
don't let this happen to me-
to be overcome by becoming,
to be persuaded by learned fears.
Don't let this happen to me.
First, the bird sings.
Satisfies the tree. The winds.
Or did the dream of singing
break and wounded, choke upon
its own sad beauty? Secondly, we live
and so we live gorgeously. The merits
of our stories, the strings that shake
and quiver beneath our calloused fingers
shape our destiny. Every chord
be true, be humble, be music.
1/25/2008
Mythology
All gods have a history. How
they were born from the womb of stars.
How they were chained to mountains
with eagles plucking at their hearts.
Where they froze enchanted by the vision
of their own startling beauty in the reflection
of a quiet river.
And then, there are men whose
history was made by stars,
by mountains, by the beauty
of their hearts.
What eagle's fury
picks at their bones?
Where are the rivers
that cast their spells
to capture them?
The garden they began in, their dream
of home, of country, of kingdoms
ancient as mystery.
they were born from the womb of stars.
How they were chained to mountains
with eagles plucking at their hearts.
Where they froze enchanted by the vision
of their own startling beauty in the reflection
of a quiet river.
And then, there are men whose
history was made by stars,
by mountains, by the beauty
of their hearts.
What eagle's fury
picks at their bones?
Where are the rivers
that cast their spells
to capture them?
The garden they began in, their dream
of home, of country, of kingdoms
ancient as mystery.
How to Disappear
The red chair remains there,
in the porch room. My blood still
on it. Two cushioned wings
that you could disappear in
if you pretended to be air.
What hiding place now
can equal its value?
The mind has forgotten how
to be quiet and vanish. It has
deserted its magic.
I should have disappeared
in that chair when my talents
were useful.
in the porch room. My blood still
on it. Two cushioned wings
that you could disappear in
if you pretended to be air.
What hiding place now
can equal its value?
The mind has forgotten how
to be quiet and vanish. It has
deserted its magic.
I should have disappeared
in that chair when my talents
were useful.
The Numbing Gray
This infernal buzzing, the clamour
of excited gatherers of sweet, frenzied
by the petaled honey.
You are not a bee.
Further down, in the tight-bladed
grasses, the cool, silence of soil,
steadily labors
the numb, gray earthworm.
of excited gatherers of sweet, frenzied
by the petaled honey.
You are not a bee.
Further down, in the tight-bladed
grasses, the cool, silence of soil,
steadily labors
the numb, gray earthworm.
Only the River
The final stab of light passes through
its victims: the poplar trees, the corner
of a wooden shed, the window facing west.
Some dark, sleeping eye opens, then
flutters out with flaming wings.
The hills are listening. The woods
are listening. The skies large ear
pressed to ground, listening. Only
the river has heard and
understanding, slowly continues
its shivering journey.
its victims: the poplar trees, the corner
of a wooden shed, the window facing west.
Some dark, sleeping eye opens, then
flutters out with flaming wings.
The hills are listening. The woods
are listening. The skies large ear
pressed to ground, listening. Only
the river has heard and
understanding, slowly continues
its shivering journey.
1/24/2008
Snow's Blood
The remainder of life, no!
proof of life, steaming red
spilled on cold, white.
A fairy tale of life
as it suddenly seemed
believable.
proof of life, steaming red
spilled on cold, white.
A fairy tale of life
as it suddenly seemed
believable.
The Underworld
She left her wet prints on the road
that speak her secrets
without permission
or persuasion;
darker, heavier air
inters their language-
an enviable ending.
Not two but three wolves
on her trail named: Love,
Vitality and Permanence
followed by a crow-
the black-winged
shaman's journey
over and above
the underworld.
that speak her secrets
without permission
or persuasion;
darker, heavier air
inters their language-
an enviable ending.
Not two but three wolves
on her trail named: Love,
Vitality and Permanence
followed by a crow-
the black-winged
shaman's journey
over and above
the underworld.
1/22/2008
It's Original Purpose
Engage one, or both. What have
you seen- immaculate circle
of silver, heaven, the incised body
of angel, unadulterated awe?
We read tragedy, the fall of light,
the loss of movement as sacrifice;
how naive this is...
but the effort is more
than worthwhile.
you seen- immaculate circle
of silver, heaven, the incised body
of angel, unadulterated awe?
We read tragedy, the fall of light,
the loss of movement as sacrifice;
how naive this is...
but the effort is more
than worthwhile.
Such Shine
What you'd hoped would dig you
up from that lasting place
of darkness, has let you lay.
You spoke to many men of science
about evacuation. No one came
to free you.
What course, what strategy,
what artifice of habit stirs
you're faith?
Such shine, the sun,
such love.
up from that lasting place
of darkness, has let you lay.
You spoke to many men of science
about evacuation. No one came
to free you.
What course, what strategy,
what artifice of habit stirs
you're faith?
Such shine, the sun,
such love.
1/21/2008
Knitting
I can name names. A few more than
disciples but all were more like Judas.
The first one was John. At twelve,
I thought: I could be a nun. All my dreams
of men were faceless, blonde but faithless;
then I married him. Knitting is not my skill;
the intricate twirling of needle against needle,
the clash of steel pulling wool around wool.
And what have you made in the end?
A ridiculous sweater or a scarf
with holes that won't keep out
the cold.
disciples but all were more like Judas.
The first one was John. At twelve,
I thought: I could be a nun. All my dreams
of men were faceless, blonde but faithless;
then I married him. Knitting is not my skill;
the intricate twirling of needle against needle,
the clash of steel pulling wool around wool.
And what have you made in the end?
A ridiculous sweater or a scarf
with holes that won't keep out
the cold.
The Movement of Thread
You sleep. I watch you sleep.
The spider waits in web watching
the thin, silver thread (the strength
of what she's weaved) anticipates movement
before there is death.
Love lights down like the shadow
of body and does not stir the air.
There are memories of movement;
the heart's eye focused in, tensed,
its shoulder muscles flexed. The bird
spotted the spider, dove in quickly
and missed.
The spider waits in web watching
the thin, silver thread (the strength
of what she's weaved) anticipates movement
before there is death.
Love lights down like the shadow
of body and does not stir the air.
There are memories of movement;
the heart's eye focused in, tensed,
its shoulder muscles flexed. The bird
spotted the spider, dove in quickly
and missed.
The Vacuum of Eternity
Not nine lives, but one.
Do you ever wonder how a single
person can generate so much garbage
and where
does all this garbage come from?
Mountains crumble into thousands
of pieces by the end of their lifetime.
And think of the massive bone collection
of animals, people, lizards and trees, fishes
and flowers piled up
over a century.
My God- eternity
needs a Dyson!
Do you ever wonder how a single
person can generate so much garbage
and where
does all this garbage come from?
Mountains crumble into thousands
of pieces by the end of their lifetime.
And think of the massive bone collection
of animals, people, lizards and trees, fishes
and flowers piled up
over a century.
My God- eternity
needs a Dyson!
Thinking About So-Many Souls at the Beginning of a Rainstorm
They're out there: little packages
of soul wrapped tightly in their skins. Some buried
deep in the stack while others are visible
at the rim. Now, as I look across sky
gray-dark clouds hanging low
pregnant with wind and rain, I think:
they must be seeing this too
from some other direction or just below
the stormline. A few early raindrops
collide against glass and I know
there are millions more to come.
of soul wrapped tightly in their skins. Some buried
deep in the stack while others are visible
at the rim. Now, as I look across sky
gray-dark clouds hanging low
pregnant with wind and rain, I think:
they must be seeing this too
from some other direction or just below
the stormline. A few early raindrops
collide against glass and I know
there are millions more to come.
1/19/2008
O Holy Night
Wood paneling. A photograph
of Jesus at the foot of the bed.
Two windows juxtapositioned
so I can see the woods and star-stained
sky without straining my neck.
Do you think God listens to our prayers
if we pray them backwards?
O Holy Night! This is my childhood.
My black-hooded coat. My blood-nostriled horse.
My dark, winged bird. Which window
shall we fly through-
into the woods or the star-filled skies?
of Jesus at the foot of the bed.
Two windows juxtapositioned
so I can see the woods and star-stained
sky without straining my neck.
Do you think God listens to our prayers
if we pray them backwards?
O Holy Night! This is my childhood.
My black-hooded coat. My blood-nostriled horse.
My dark, winged bird. Which window
shall we fly through-
into the woods or the star-filled skies?
Waxing the Heart
"Are you cleaning?" he asks.
No, I am writing again; no time
for cleaning.
The pots and pans do not mind,
the small collected balls of dust
do not mind, the mud-pawed dog
does not mind that I am busy
dreaming.
No, I am writing again; no time
for cleaning.
The pots and pans do not mind,
the small collected balls of dust
do not mind, the mud-pawed dog
does not mind that I am busy
dreaming.
Uncollected Fruits
For now, the peach in my hand
will have to do. Do what?
Help me remember my home.
But this peach is round, perfect,
smooth and reminds me of nothing
I can claim as my own. Here,
on the ground by my feet
are the fruits of my memory-
cracked open, sweetly
perfumed, overly
ripening.
will have to do. Do what?
Help me remember my home.
But this peach is round, perfect,
smooth and reminds me of nothing
I can claim as my own. Here,
on the ground by my feet
are the fruits of my memory-
cracked open, sweetly
perfumed, overly
ripening.
1/18/2008
Someone Else's Life
You must have been six years old. Seems now,
someone else's life or a made-up one like
the foreign film with the little girl who pretended
her dead mother alive. And no one believed her
until she woke up on a cold winter morning
wearing the sweater her mother was buried in.
They say: "stars have died by the time you see them."
You must have been six years old when recurrent dreams
of lions and horses, fences and fire meant nothing
and stars were alive
exactly-when
their shine moved through the windowpane.
someone else's life or a made-up one like
the foreign film with the little girl who pretended
her dead mother alive. And no one believed her
until she woke up on a cold winter morning
wearing the sweater her mother was buried in.
They say: "stars have died by the time you see them."
You must have been six years old when recurrent dreams
of lions and horses, fences and fire meant nothing
and stars were alive
exactly-when
their shine moved through the windowpane.
1/17/2008
Jane H. and Mary O.
One is quiet, dark like corner
where heart sits thinking, the other
examining a small pink shell
flooded with morning's light...
beetle black as schist, sweet
swan bathed in silver, milky-soft.
Inside, purpose sharpens like
a sword, outside every bird rejects
ambition to lean towards warmth.
As such, the rose holds little meaning
without its well-placed thorn.
where heart sits thinking, the other
examining a small pink shell
flooded with morning's light...
beetle black as schist, sweet
swan bathed in silver, milky-soft.
Inside, purpose sharpens like
a sword, outside every bird rejects
ambition to lean towards warmth.
As such, the rose holds little meaning
without its well-placed thorn.
1/15/2008
The Changling
If I would be poet, wife,
lover, daughter, sister,
she-who-could-be-me might
not be faithful.
A hundred memorized desires
char to flame, stripped winter
branches on whose sleeves
wild fruit once clung
then dropped, obedient
to forces not unlike
the servile shadow
apprenticed to
its jealous mason.
The way things move:
dark honey falling from
the spoon or quickbirds
flattening the wing;
in such a manner,
we become
the changling...
bound and released,
certain then doubtful,
gathered green, sewn in
captured
and constantly
escaping.
lover, daughter, sister,
she-who-could-be-me might
not be faithful.
A hundred memorized desires
char to flame, stripped winter
branches on whose sleeves
wild fruit once clung
then dropped, obedient
to forces not unlike
the servile shadow
apprenticed to
its jealous mason.
The way things move:
dark honey falling from
the spoon or quickbirds
flattening the wing;
in such a manner,
we become
the changling...
bound and released,
certain then doubtful,
gathered green, sewn in
captured
and constantly
escaping.
1/14/2008
House on the Bluff
This is my castle: black night
raising its head, fur shining purple;
one glowing eye, saffron and orange.
Hear the sea, primitive drums,
its tambourine of rock and corral,
matted hairs of seaweed swept
across the platinum sands.
These ocean shelves, jagged stairs
the color of fire and blood climb up
to ceiling, that is not a ceiling
but open like a glass-paned door
where gray-winged gulls, voices sharp
as trumpets whorl, then dive down.
raising its head, fur shining purple;
one glowing eye, saffron and orange.
Hear the sea, primitive drums,
its tambourine of rock and corral,
matted hairs of seaweed swept
across the platinum sands.
These ocean shelves, jagged stairs
the color of fire and blood climb up
to ceiling, that is not a ceiling
but open like a glass-paned door
where gray-winged gulls, voices sharp
as trumpets whorl, then dive down.
1/13/2008
Pince-nez
Lost again.
In a drawer.
On the bathroom shelf.
Beneath bedcovers.
Perhaps, between pages
of an interesting book
or resting, an impertinent
smile, on the crown
of an insensible head.
What is the rule
for those who misplace
the instrument
crucial
for finding?
In a drawer.
On the bathroom shelf.
Beneath bedcovers.
Perhaps, between pages
of an interesting book
or resting, an impertinent
smile, on the crown
of an insensible head.
What is the rule
for those who misplace
the instrument
crucial
for finding?
Every Wound is Caused by Beauty
When I tell you:
do not bring me
fresh-cut flowers,
(they wilt
in several days)
I mean to say-
to be blessed
is to anticipate
a sorrow.
do not bring me
fresh-cut flowers,
(they wilt
in several days)
I mean to say-
to be blessed
is to anticipate
a sorrow.
A Shadow Crossed the Field
If we created God, do you
think He understood
that we are fools?
A shadow crossed the field
and crows exclaimed:
"Look what we have made!"
The wolf may dream a moon
and not be sure who hung it
tightly in the skies;
a star will throw its light
to earth never reaching
a grateful heart.
If man created God
then who
created life?
think He understood
that we are fools?
A shadow crossed the field
and crows exclaimed:
"Look what we have made!"
The wolf may dream a moon
and not be sure who hung it
tightly in the skies;
a star will throw its light
to earth never reaching
a grateful heart.
If man created God
then who
created life?
The Plague
I know that you've held the long,
sweet rose. I know
that you may be forgiven
for excesses; change your name
and still I know
what-strips-you-bare
will find you.
Each summer, nervous-bodied
flies lay eggs
on everything spoiled.
sweet rose. I know
that you may be forgiven
for excesses; change your name
and still I know
what-strips-you-bare
will find you.
Each summer, nervous-bodied
flies lay eggs
on everything spoiled.
1/09/2008
All Things Invisible
In wide open spaces
I confess my love
for all things missing.
I have no secrets,
no wounds, no burning
destiny, no sacred tablets
to deliver me
from invisible.
There is a story
about a boy
who swallowed light
and it ate him
from the inside
until he became
light.
On the subway,
a woman cried out
"Jesus!"
and burst
into flames.
No one noticed
the fire
of her skin.
I confess my love
for all things missing.
I have no secrets,
no wounds, no burning
destiny, no sacred tablets
to deliver me
from invisible.
There is a story
about a boy
who swallowed light
and it ate him
from the inside
until he became
light.
On the subway,
a woman cried out
"Jesus!"
and burst
into flames.
No one noticed
the fire
of her skin.
Without a Glimpse
What I have given you
I have entrusted to
the winds, the seas,
the unaffected hills;
being grateful for love
I have given love. I have
set you free.
In times of need,
a needle and thread
will mend the separated
seams; a gentle word,
and poetry, may lift
the lowered head. Yet,
a million eyes without
a glimpse of beauty;
how are we to live?
I have entrusted to
the winds, the seas,
the unaffected hills;
being grateful for love
I have given love. I have
set you free.
In times of need,
a needle and thread
will mend the separated
seams; a gentle word,
and poetry, may lift
the lowered head. Yet,
a million eyes without
a glimpse of beauty;
how are we to live?
1/07/2008
Inside the Small
An original event: a star
blazed up inside
the quiet, nerve-less
dark; the strange instance
"touch" amazed the skin.
The startled, pleasured
bird: air's blood
in its nostril; a sapling
shivering slightly in freezing
winter winds.
I am here, lifting "heart"
from its body's dust;
a light blazed up
inside the small, dark
organ.
blazed up inside
the quiet, nerve-less
dark; the strange instance
"touch" amazed the skin.
The startled, pleasured
bird: air's blood
in its nostril; a sapling
shivering slightly in freezing
winter winds.
I am here, lifting "heart"
from its body's dust;
a light blazed up
inside the small, dark
organ.
Praying for Alex
You could hear grief
in her voice as if sorrows
were the gritty stones
that collect in the tiny
sacs of lung.
in her voice as if sorrows
were the gritty stones
that collect in the tiny
sacs of lung.
1/05/2008
Of Joy
We cannot know of
the importance
of joy
when
shadow"s clever tricks
bring forward visions
of the past.
The unthinkable difference
of an immortal heart
from a dying one:
it's refusal to be
filled completely
with sorrow.
the importance
of joy
when
shadow"s clever tricks
bring forward visions
of the past.
The unthinkable difference
of an immortal heart
from a dying one:
it's refusal to be
filled completely
with sorrow.
1/04/2008
The Cookbook
Life: garlic, baby basil leaves,
finely grated pecorino cheese,
1/2 cup of heavy cream, flour
for dusting. Boil the salt water
for about 3 minutes: if necessary
add a few spoonfuls of virgin oil.
If you're using flavorings,get them
made and ready. Continue cooking
until the sauce is smooth and creamy.
Death: First of all, make sure
your barbecue is clean. Add a
few small pieces of charcoal.
4 slices of thickly cut pancetta.
Wild mushrooms. Coarsely ground black pepper.
Use a piece of sturdy cardboard to fan
the fire. Then let the fire simmer down
till it's white hot and the flames
have gone.
finely grated pecorino cheese,
1/2 cup of heavy cream, flour
for dusting. Boil the salt water
for about 3 minutes: if necessary
add a few spoonfuls of virgin oil.
If you're using flavorings,get them
made and ready. Continue cooking
until the sauce is smooth and creamy.
Death: First of all, make sure
your barbecue is clean. Add a
few small pieces of charcoal.
4 slices of thickly cut pancetta.
Wild mushrooms. Coarsely ground black pepper.
Use a piece of sturdy cardboard to fan
the fire. Then let the fire simmer down
till it's white hot and the flames
have gone.
The Un-Matched
The dog lies down by the fireplace. I am
sorting socks from the day's laundry;
few of them have a partner. The dog sleeps
soundly, mate-less beside the fire I built
with my identical hands, her jaw
resting against her leftover bone
as if being un-matched
is simply not a problem.
sorting socks from the day's laundry;
few of them have a partner. The dog sleeps
soundly, mate-less beside the fire I built
with my identical hands, her jaw
resting against her leftover bone
as if being un-matched
is simply not a problem.
Finger-Painting Angels
| The radio said: Three days of unexpected rain. The work of gravity and water; water that has set in earth enriched with particles of dust, flower's blood, wood and salt. Opening its rust-stained mouth, sky expels its liquid life like wolves regurgitate to feed their pups- rabbit, fur, splintered bone. Though I am old and cold tonight, the milky mist that rises thick as curtains on the panes, has not lessened my delight for finger-painting angels, horses, child-like birds with human, smiling faces on my kitchen window. |
1/03/2008
Glows
| What can they tell me? What will they reveal- voices of the poets dead and dying? So I spin, a brake-less wheel to catch the fallen phrases each a testament to living when living could be praised. If I could publish dead men's rhymes, translate dreams of all whose dreams have gone, would life be beautiful or ghastly details of their crimes? This one writes of worms and dirt, another of the cold, dark night; see how different light becomes when stolen from the writer's eye? Deep into the ground the hearts and prayers of poets grow, yet what they left behind while living glows and glows. |
1/01/2008
Just Words
Words. Just words.
They cannot fly or pull
a splinter from the nail,
change oil in the car
or wash dishes.
But how they sit,
ridiculous or wise
like angels on their white,
white page.
Tonight, I write
"O beautiful words,
silly, playful, bleeding,
meaningful words-
why can't you
pay my mortgage?"
They cannot fly or pull
a splinter from the nail,
change oil in the car
or wash dishes.
But how they sit,
ridiculous or wise
like angels on their white,
white page.
Tonight, I write
"O beautiful words,
silly, playful, bleeding,
meaningful words-
why can't you
pay my mortgage?"
Of Wolves and Men: Love and Mercy (a medieval draft)
The sad, dark song of wolves and men
traveling oe'r cold and sleepless fields
hath thrust a dagger in hearts of them
who could not weep or sorrow hold.
The night hath wrought its justice so
to spare the weak and tender souls
no sound nor fear to wreck them woe
hath reached their blessed ear.
O! silence of the rising light! the tears
of dew that bead and shine so brightly
glisten in the eyes of those who fight
for love and mercy.
traveling oe'r cold and sleepless fields
hath thrust a dagger in hearts of them
who could not weep or sorrow hold.
The night hath wrought its justice so
to spare the weak and tender souls
no sound nor fear to wreck them woe
hath reached their blessed ear.
O! silence of the rising light! the tears
of dew that bead and shine so brightly
glisten in the eyes of those who fight
for love and mercy.
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