I picked through the mess and found a box
of creased and faded photographs. Anonymous faces
A moment caught. Hard earned cash handed over
for a paper memory and yet we’ve all come
to rest in mercantile purgatory
Fragment
Brick by Brick
We have built our house together, you and I
in hard earned 2x4s of time. We burned
well measured blueprints. Made other stairs to climb
Filled our rooms with mouths to feed. Painted walls
in bold colors to cover cracks and stains. Our memories
collected. Hang picture framed of brighter days
Above, a roof to patch to hide. For warmth above a bed we made
and unmade too in fights and tears. Talk and love. The toss and turn
of children’s midnight fears. We have hammered nails that bind
to hold us safe. Cantilevered. An artful arts and crafts design
Learned the will of a living earth. Contract expand. A crack
a crumble. Clean up the mess. Begin again
When we have left with chandeliers and lights dimmed
to match the dark who else could take the shell we built
create the hidden home that we have
The Twenty Fifth Sunday
Her girlhood game of spinning to fall tilted on the warm cut grass
in snail-paced ancient wonder. This was the miracle
how gravity could hold her. A force grounded counter-
balanced. The perceived stillness of a flying planet
across the arc of time she emptied her calendar
found herself lost her mind. No plan came true
through years of shelter greed justice
crime only a world giving birth to night and day
horizons draw death from life. Between her suburban
church and the shattered earth, her hymnal hit the floor
in ordinary time
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
Find Your Story 