Neglect of Beauty

In the violent heart
of religion,

feeling

the need
to get away-

I dreamt
without you;

tall trees, pale skies,
dark birds,

the city,
the sea,

the anonymous
nations.

Here, all in black
I abandon

the weight
of my own
beauty.

Wild Deer in Snow

Yesterday, snow fell
from heaven
[small bodies of girls
surrender to white sheets]

Today, melts
against the warm teats
of earth- sodden flowers.

Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done
on earth
as it is in heaven...

always grey,
never white,

the book of fear,
the weathered nights,

the fragile steps
of wild deer

in wet snow.

Fallen Grain

There is no fame
for most of us;

one in a million
seed takes hold.

It is safe to say-

nature

has not blessed
the fallen grain.

Confessions

... and then we confessed.
Our guilt, panes of glass
in the bones of a window
without curtain or shade-

we weather the frost
and make beauty of winter.

I whisper truth
in your ears...

the wind
in a room
small enough

to destroy it-

you have my words.

Emotional Inertia

He has taken a wife.
A particle of dust
floats down, seemingly
forevor.

He is mending a coat
for a small child. I watch
the needle rise and fall

in soft light,

from the eyes
of my grave.

When will the sun set?

I walk backwards
inside [the] dream
as if I am frozen

there..

in a yellow field of lily,
an orange poppy
thrives...

why?

I am condemned
to a secret

inertia.

Imperfect

On a page,
grey

as a winter sky
at dusk, I write-

" the value
of life is.."


Paralyzed,
by night, I

leave the rest
for eternity.

Alms

...the gullet of a hand
pulls out pigeons
from the throat,

the throat

is a wind tunnel,
a corridor to a small room-

the wind
is a measure

of losses.

I am searching
for a way out.

I am a boomerang
returning to point A

as if point B
never existed;

the idea
is to remain

faithful

and drop alms
in the cups

of the poor.

The Art of Suffocation

...they had not forgotten
the art of suffocation,

the promotion
of suicide.

"You see" they said
"time does not change things...

it marinates, saturates
the bone".

Surely, life
is a pickle.

The boy understood.

Beneath his fresh exterior,
the boy was cured.

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.