I should always
occasionally
write a poem on death
While mirth still dances in
my gut
and laughter kisses me
I should form a stanza or two
Of death riding in on
A pale horse to reap
So when the fellow offers me a ride
those waiting on foot
can read the crumbs left behind,
and say ‘she knew it all the time.’
Black branches stretch your limbs
Before the sore and swell of time
Ages you against the wind,
Against the bend that shapes these crimes.
Blackest limbs, embrace the sky
Before growing in the crevice
Of fiercest pressures to bow or die
And forget the flowing heavens
Somewhere above your crooked frame
Take one last look at flaming stars,
Before the wind has made you tame,
And you’ve forgotten who you are.
Sorrow used to come at me
With a sharp drawn in its hand
And stab and swing and sever
And I was naught to understand.
Then it knocked upon my door,
But I scarce would let it in
Until it crept off in the dark
It’s blade to whet again.
Now we meet as strangers,
Who recognize the other’s face
But can’t remember if in a dream,
Or in this wicked place
We once fought as enemies
Dealing mortal blows;
Sorrow’s, to teach me misery,
And mine, to cease to know.
Grounded,
And it would be so sweet,
But for your final resting place
Tossed somewhere far from me.
Grounded,
And the dirt that is my keep,
Would sit so soft upon my skin,
If we could share this sleep.
From the miles,
Across the sea
Of asphalt and tire
And melancholy memory
I remember you;
Nights we grieved,
And laughed, and hoped,
And, as one, believed.
Does the magnificent butterfly
Shedding her chrysalis
Shed also tears -to cry
Or reminisce
Of caterpillar feet,
Big lazy days,
Big leaves to eat,
Simpler, unsightlier ways?
Or does the pain
Of breaking free
Erase the stain
Of all that used to be?
Your self steps in your way,
unseen to you, you trip again.
You’ll pull yourself up,
brush off your sin
and continue on your stray.
You hold dear
all the right ideals,
but sideways,
with all the wrong ideas
fixed askew.
You crave worship,
so you can tithe a tenth
to the Most Holy,
like spiritual rent
or dues.
I can’t explain the cloud.
It doesn’t bring me down,
But it threatens a little rain
And I’m over-sensitive to pain
So when I feel the sky turning gray
I swim upstream all day
Afraid to see what’s downstream,
Another tumbling waterfall, the gleam
Of another cruel hook,
So I bite by the bullet by the book
And close my eyes, and repeat
It’s all just a dream, there’s no defeat
If I just keep standing.
No running, leaping, landing
On my feet is needed;
If I stand still I have succeeded.
Today is new.
I’m an old wretch,
Drenched in the sins
ever seeping through,
But this is the homestretch,
And I belong to You,
And every day Your mercy is new.
Today is hope.
I’ve been clinging
To the very bottom
of my frayed rope,
But You keep singing,
Expanding my scope,
And ringing out hope.
Today is Yours,
And I’ve tried to take it,
but no more.
I relinquish it, break it,
Lift it off the floor
Teach me to let it be Yours.
The coffee pot sputters me awake.
My children color while their waffles bake-
The younger one loves what the older one makes
So as a show of admiration she takes it
and runs away. They call me, the judge, to break
the disagreement. Pleading their case so I will slake
their thirst for justice, and I agree and forsake
My kitchen station- My mistake.
I restore peace then return for the sake
Of waffles burning, big black flakes
Into the trash- everything brakes.
We sit with what remains. We partake
Together.
And when these perfect days are over,
How will they ever be replaced
With anything but ache?
viewingcamelot 