Through and Through

Is it really about life?  Always about life?
Some say it's more about love and how faithful
you are.  I knew you once, but I didn't
know you.  I didn't love you then

and then I did- for awhile.

Look through the long window, see green,
all green, until you don't.  The sky, overhead
hears our prayers each night and methodically
forgets them;  deaf in its thick, grey vest

the moon has other things to worry about.

Each star sings its singular hymn of light,
a constant choir, so constant we cannot hear it,
like the rush of cars on the freeway or the chatter
of children in a play-yard or a tv left on

in the dark.


Delicious Love

I remember the cat with her crooked teeth
and the wolf with teeth like jagged pearls

who ate her.

And I loved the wolf for his hunger,
his honesty, without plate or fork
or napkin or insincerity.

Who knows what the wolf
will consume next-  the unmoving stars,
the watchful moon, the lazy cow sleeping

in the field, the crazy fox chasing
roosters like children playing tag
on a warm afternoon.

Nothing really disappears
even when it should.  The most important
thing is love-  and who says love
isn't love even if it tastes good?

All Things Invisible

In wide open spaces we confess
our love for all things missing. We have
no secrets, no wounds, no burning destiny,
no sacred tablets to deliver us

from invisible.

There is a story about a boy
who swallowed light; 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.

In an alley, against a brick wall
a man drank himself to death;
beneath newspaper and garbage

he disappeared.


Cultivating the Soul

Behind an electric fence, the over-protected soul
plays sullenly in its yard, sits often
gazing out, planning escape,

envisioning freedom.

And what of wild souls roaming
wood and vale, victims to the hunter's trap
who covet what they wear

and violently remove it

or the wary soul, like frightened deer
who stoop to drink the river
with every muscle trembling

incapacitated by their fear?

What would we learn if each of them
told the truth about their lives?

I am not liberated, I am not
the history of suppression; I am
exactly where and what I'm meant to be,

the horse who waits patiently
for the open field, the saddle and whip
draped across the fence like

a patient teacher, the rider's knees
pressed firmly against the chest,
puts the animal through its paces, the crop

resting on its flank
ready to strike.

We Were Built for Ascension

Barnacle goslings at two days old
jump off 400 foot cliffs crashing into jagged
rocks to reach the base, their wings tiny
featherless thumbs, their bodies pliable,

their instinct confident.

Say plummet, density, gravity,
say inevitable or courageous,
say death but only temporarily; 
say "jump, fall, crash to ground

but only briefly".

You'll see, the dreaded descent
won't last long

like glancing in a mirror
before saying goodnight,

closing your eyes in the dark,
oblivious the next morning-

remember we were built for ascension,
the bounce, the up and out, the dangerous

graceful trampoline act where
falling down always leads

to rising.