Communion

Let it be for me
the body and the blood
let it be for me
the living word of God

wafer thin and hollow wine
my thoughts
ritual by man's design

but let it be for me
the sinner's sweet release
let it be for me
overwhelming peace

remorse is all i know
shame is all i see
but by God's grace and love
let it be for me

Tuesday

Red ribbon; cut crystal hung to catch the light;
to increase energy across the spectrum; across the body.

Hard wood floors; beaded doorways--topaz, peridot
Incense, jade, scents, smells & breathing.

Deliver me, Lord, from calculated, dispassionate prayer.
Calculated; rehearsed & recited.
Deliver me, Lord, from incantations, methods and motions.

Release me only to the Spirit who indwells.

Caesura

The Story:
When I wrote this poem, I had been traveling for two weeks and was looking at traveling for another two weeks. I do enjoy travel; but not alone. I was driving to my sister's house at sunset in Indiana, and as I kept passing farm houses lit up with either oil lamps or soft electric light, I longed to be home in both the physical and spiritual sense. I was tired and I wanted to belong somewhere. I thought of how lovely it would be to spend time with my sister and stay at her house instead of a hotel, and the grace of God descended into my thoughts and I praised Him.

Caesura

My eye is drawn to the window light;
warm lamp of the resting farmhouse,
dusk safely moving toward a slow supper.

Soft
soft, soft.
A sleeping toddler,
conversation with my sister
and the real self I try to display along with
pamphlets, powerpoint and lights.

My caesura,
my gift of desperation
to step aside and breathe
to turn away and weep
to close my eyes, to smile in secret.

Breathe on me, Selah.
Spirit's logic my warm fire,
the knowlege of you exhales passion
over the cold, wet gravel.

Hwy 304 West

Fogg Road knows it's name
and delivered a special note
in your hand, yesterday.

pink sunset, low mist over haybales

I had to stop.
I had to stop the car, risk the road and a barking dog

to spend a few minutes
studying the angles and strokes
and find your signature in the corner of this moment.

Winter 7:02am

Snuggled tight in down and cotton
linen thoughts and morning vows.

I find a sovereign God is waiting,
waving off my fearful doubts closed thick around my whispering lips.

I'm losing the faith it takes to be intimate
to do more than submit to power.

Watching the light grow on the ceiling,
I beat my chest, "Have mercy on me, a sinner."

Hospice

Death; the spector,
blackhooded
shadows equally my logic and emotion.

Not so much the end of all things as the end of me.

Blessed.
Warm fire,
from my chair a view of the moon through branches.

In the morning I will wake
and find the turn row.

Frost under my feet.

I breathe; I am; I will be,
until the future is present continuous.

Mississippi Solstice

I have a winter sky heart
with careful stars
beside a moon so bright it'll be ash by the end of the week.

No snow gray; close and heavy.
No cloud puffs in thin wind.

Just soft auburn
and high, high sky.

There's a brittle crackle longing--
the fear of breathing deeply;
the hope.

I can see you , God; just past deep blue.

Valhalla Merlot

Rock me out.
Take every wrinkle,
spot, dark circle.

Rock me out
with gels and
creams; hopes
held high in glossy
80lb magazine
pages.

Rock me out.
If I have the
perfect shoe,
the cream shade
that defies age
and all touch with reality.

Rock me out;
white teeth,
perfect skin,
soft hair with highlights.

Rock me out.
Trade me up.
Sell me out.
Sell me short.

Retrace the Steps

I've always been too much like Levertov
too much
on
the
next
line
too much like the Hebrews
repeating images
using pictures--restating in other words
the already said
too much in love with Levine
and his stark line and his white images
of taste and grime and industry
and dirt and the list goes on to one
too much in sway like Neruda
full of plump pomegranites
and li-young lee--word mistakes
and twists and turns in persimmons

i like persimmons

too much like Dickenson
all dashes and rhythms
too much like w.s.
with nothing to say
next to the white chickens
not enough like eliot
the epic eludes, eludes, eludes
bishop's fish and oily rainbows

so bring the requiem of notes played and words read, spelled
spoken and tasted.

I breathe the steps I've taken
and I will breathe them again
and they will be read.

Thrios Arkadelphia

I'm trapped in the home stretch
caught in the last .2 miles to the finish
If I could just get beyond,
If I could just reach,
out, past, there, in front;
just at the tip of the longest finger
of the daydreaming transient.

Angry, red and bitter;
I gesticulate--
the homeless hitchhiker
terrifying every do-gooder,
stomping and swearing.

I'm so damned helpless,
trapped and helpless
watching the dust devils dance.