Leave Your Mark
The Muse
Waiting for Angie to pick up her pen
But she wishes to write something sweeping
Defining of the age
Biding her time on Facebook instead
But she wishes to write something sweeping
Angie won’t go where I want her
Biding her time on Facebook instead
She turns from the songs I sing to her soul
Angie won’t go where I want her
Where the feminine still beats to fire and water
She turns from the songs I sing to her soul
For a human voice, not of womanhood alone
Where the the feminine still beats to fire and water
A deep and spiritual world
Projections of a dream on an empty screen
Beneath her feet turned to half-truths
A deep and spiritual world
Under two dimensional idolatry
Beneath her feet turned to half-truths
We wrestle at night, her ego and me
Under two dimensional idolatry
A dream of hollow concave hands
We wrestle at night, her ego and me
Waiting for Angie to pick up her pen
The Meeting
Build mosaics in the sky
for our belated reunion, my girlhood and I
fallow in a house of waiting
The Last Word
I have seen the river run with blood
After dawn woke peaceful. Still cold
but with the damp scent of spring
I have watched sunlight on the water
Life reflected into fire. Heard the vultures sing
of heaven. Dance in circles. The immortal taste of flesh
I have felt the pulse of life grow weary
Known, too late, dawn’s other choices
Night has come. We don’t take anger with us
Only love
What Come of Waiting
What comes of waiting
First passion aged
the taste complex. Love too
became a vintner’s drink
the bitter blissful buzz
The volunteer. The drafted men
who left and leave by choice or need
Dug trenches into graves. Their women
sowed forgotten seed
Water’s languid kiss, the rock’s demise
Flames for heat slow burned to ash
Invited guest, the late trespass stay and stay
The hole is filled. The ground left soft
as breath had been
We found them here. What comes of waiting
Find Your Story 