Marigolds

I am kneeling
in the marigolds,

white-haired,
flood the valley

in unruly procession.

Lovely-

the promise
of blanket

they resemble.

Rushing Away [Death Penalty]

The sequence of events
became a survivor's account...

build a spine
from an old fence

and watch it
fall in disarray...

whatever moves
in the yard will be gone

by morning

(a desperate
rushing-away)

Quickly

we lose reign
over our captive
beast.

Duplicate
the sequence-

this becomes
a freed

nation

(the definition of
redemption)

Somewhere,
in semi-darkness

a mother's
sorrow

[for dog
or the dead]

Resurrection

...if I resurrect you,
would you forgive me?

I have wasted
my prayer. Hear
the wind! There is

glass
in the air

as if it has been
broken. Your body

has betrayed
me. Once,

I saw you
as "gift"...

my eyes
are ordinary,

your's
were like moons,
a string of pearl-

I will not miss

light

in such a way.

There is no end
to silence, no blanket

to cover night, no soil
that will restore you.

A grey dove
in dark sky...

glides down.

If I resurrect you,
will you forgive me?

By the Sea

I was invited
to a party

at a house
by the sea...

every window
a sunset-

a masterpiece
in old frame.

The sand
walked in

without shoes.

I never realized
stars "ring"

like wine glasses
toasting the gifts

of a generous host.

Somewhere,
in the distance-

a grey whale.

God Bless America

You'll calm down
in a day or two

like a wet cloth
left out
on the clothesline

[you smell good
but you're brittle]

I think it's time
to understand

that no one
stays up all night

without a cause.

So many battles,
so few clauses...

*the tiny writing
at the bottom
of a contract

that nullifies
everything.

God bless America!

...at least

we've learned how

to pray!

City Sky

Do you see
the city's sky?

I will teach you
to imagine it...

the history,
the magic,
the movement

of stars,

the fingerline
of birds soaring

arched ceilings,

the pale shoulders
of moon beneath
black lingerie,

the tent of darkness,
the cage of wind,

the tremendous weight
of it's loneliness...

only
the sparkling
sea

overwhelms it.

The Weight of Being

If you ignore
the unequal parts
of weight...

for years
eternity traced
with hoary fingers

the form
of dying,

the fading color
of the hills,

measured
survival

against the jawbone of God...

and came up
empty handed.

How do you assume
dreams are made of

air

when they fall
as heavily

as dying?

In a single instance
of unmatched awe,

the hours recede,
the tide abates,
the ground consumes

its roses.

In the end,

the only difference
between light and dark

is a man
who remembered

"being".

Destinations

On a motionless train,
the landscape changes-

a trick of the eye.

We have eighty years,
more or less, to ponder
destinations.

The vortex of life
gathers un-natural forces,

yet, stands still

at the core...

the soul
is a child clinging
upside-down

to the merry -go-round.

The Blood Flows

The Dirty White

I gave back
the blue stone,

gave up
the grapes.

Counted every leaf
that fell during the storms-

released
their grasp.

Examined
my scars

as if they
could sing.

Realized...

the grey horse
is never coming back

from the low plains.

All About Wings

Waiting to be born,
the bird thrust wings
against its glass-less window.

On such an occasion,
everything,everywhere is bone.

The idea of air, a sky
without ceiling,

the body unraveling
out of its skin,

the wall-less room
of eternity somehow
never completely
defines us.

Wings. It is all about wings.

And space.

The narrow space
between the bones,
between the heart,

the unfinished song,
the unwritten word,
the unchartered flight-

that small hole

in the fabric of night.

The City, The Rain, A Window, A Woman (Metaphoric Experimentation)

... and they haunched down
at four corners of city.

One with hair, a river bend,
another, the sweet voice of bird,
the third, an eye
as large as moon...

the last,

whose flesh
bright silver shone,

held two small stones.

Night is a circle.

City is captive
in tresses of river.

Nightingales sweetly,
softly, the rain.

In a large-paned window,
the body of woman,

breasts aglow.

For Whom the Sun Sets

The foremost important discovery
is the initial reflection of light
in the newborn eye.

At dawn, the lilies
open their mouths.

I have grown older.
Not one of us
thought we would.

Once more,
a bruised purple sky
climbs the path
of grey mountains.

Each day,
we clothe ourselves
as if it matters.

Stones
have no need for trinkets-
must we?

The soul is transparent
as dew.The moon shines
through a far darker fabric.

My eyes remember, rejoice
for what has been captured.

The sun sets down
on the living...

as well as the dead.

posted by Rachel Phillips @ 26.10.05

Relative Revelations

No one is watching the rain.
I am prone to visions
at times of lightening.

My father is thunder.
My mother is sky
which he stains.

My brothers
are like winds

in opposing directions...

I am caught
between them.

The storm
is our heritage.

Our dark nights
huddled beneath

the roof
or our leaking

sins exposed

by flashes of sudden,
intermittent light...

somehow seem
glorious, natural

and forgiven.

My Own Ghost

Allow me to touch
your courage, the crest

of forgetting.

Every window
has a blank side...

I never said
you could see

through it.

When you look
away, this darkness

becomes human-

the ceiling
of passage.

I will leave
my body

to space...

to whom,
to where?

Our moment
ripens, discovers

the part
that falls away,

the quiet,
the rhythm,
the deep sleep,

the silent cradle
of sacrifice-

within it
I am filled

with my own

ghost.

Broken Bones

I was born
in a house

that was worth
no more than
my name. Isn't it

strange how

easy it is
to grieve for walls?

There are
no judgements

that burn
as strong

as blood.

The architecture
of my damaged moon

shines

on a bleached building-

a monument
of fractured bones.

Spills Dream

Out of the palm of my hands,
from the creases of my skin
my story unfolds...

it is not unique

but speaks

a strange language.

In the mind, it takes
but minutes for death
to overcome the ripened flower...

the sweetness of fruit
sleeping in the sun,

the odor of life
disintegrating.

In my bed, the sun sets...
my shoulders- earth,
my mouth- the song of wind

in the breast of trees,

my body a vessel of Spring

spills dream.

In Ancient Beds

I am not deaf, I hear
what you do not speak

the widening silence
between thought and extremes.

You move in a world
of stone.

My feet are wings...

the reason birds
have hollow bones

while rocks sleep
in ancient beds

without the joy
of dreams.

The Purpose of Rooms

At the end of the day,
worry is not a question.

No one asks the dead-

"why?"

At the threshold of the door,
there are two concerns-

leave or live.

Rooms and the purpose
of rooms becomes a riddle-

inside of all of us,
an unfamiliar puzzle.

The night, the city,
my stretched skin

my captured soul,
my unended beginning...

becomes a room.

I dreamt I was born
in the hollow
of a wooden shell-

somehow, at the end
of the day, (incomplete)

Half of the Beginning

Not long ago,
a child knelt down
at the knee of her father

not with reverence,
something more...

like a moth settling
upon un-natural light

or the way
the moon clings
to divinity more tightly

than the rafters
of its sky.

What is a father?

Half of the beginning,
a guiding bell, the sound
of which leads us

to higher grounds,
a tree whose leaves

remind us of ourselves.

Dragonfly(incomplete draft)

The hidden is often revealed,
but not just for honesty's sake-

the center takes the mystery
out of life's design

and makes it tangible.

We also, should be less obvious,
like dragonflies occasionally flit in-

then unseen exit through a window,

or sacrifice ourselves to beauty
like the golden subtle rose.

The Aging Sky

We have recovered
what was lost-
the aging sky

We were born
to remember.
It's in our blood.

The night
weaves a garment
for our bones.

How lovely
its threads gleam
across our chests.

I am convinced
of the purpose
of stars and stones...

even as we sleep
their meaning
survives us.

This world
is burning. Everyday,
the aging skies...

the ashen heavens
of our flames-
ignite.

The Density of Delight

Of my delight, the world
finds meaning... early morning
rain, a beard of clouds
obscuring the rising sun,
the sweet breathe of a newborn sky.

Beneath my window,
flower peddler of silver-wet streets-
first steps of dawn in a city

that unfolds
like orchid blossoms,
a blank blue page.

Here, we'll write today
of gardens, of twirling leaves,
dew-green trinkets-

a necklace for the wind.

Of my delight, we'll write
how grateful are the eyes
emerged from darkness
held proudly on their stems,

alive, alive. And all we know
alive, alive. Things could be

different, we tell ourselves,

knowing is far heavier
than sleep or waking...

far more dense
than early morning rain.

draft (White Lily)

And so, white lily,
the darkness comes
to drink your shining light-

a woman's body glows
through silk, then softly

burns out.

Your folded skin
unwrapped again,

a borrowed gift, delight

Stained-Glass

Your large body filled
with beautiful things-
some un-framed and simple,
others resting on the floor

to be admired from above...

I walk your temple
with wakened eyes, slow

like a desperate lover.

See there! How color
becomes the sea,
the floor of sky,
the arching wing of bird,

your creatures
are not confined
to cloth or wood.

Art is your mouth,
your delicate hands,
the way your body
moves like light, like color

through a stained-glass window.