Spread out these time creased wings
Reach for the sun beyond
The height where others fell
Excerpt From The Exquisite Rapture of St Joan
Learning to Swim
From The Keeper’s House…a story I’ve been writing forever…
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
Notebook Series #2
Courage
inside the force of creation
rebuild the wings of Icarus
soar on sinews a gentle lift
through feathers on the wind
from rapacious bird to zealous explorer
against the current of history’s lessons
to reach the galaxy of gods
face the nuclear sun full knowing
someday you will fall
Lily of the Hearth
She carries exhumed memories
Gentle in the palm of her hand
The way she held wounded birds and wild flowers
Running home as a girl
Filled with wonder
Always so full
How she reached tenacious from the ground
How she found the sun and didn’t stop
Learned the truth and still said yes
Rooted to the warmth of stories in a hidden heart
Promises from lips left petals scarred
She’s cracked a bit as cells divide
A seed pressed in winter’s cold embrace
Born through summer’s sultry thighs
What Poets Know
If I can’t be the poet
Then let me be the pen
Let me feel the weight of words
The curves the edges of their skin
To know the aching joy of language
Lovemaking with truth. The whispered sigh
Turned to life unfolding growing long after
The pen runs dry. There are other pens in the world
Poets are harder to find
Do the poets know?
Do they listen somehow? Do they
Write into the dark? Throw life at the stars
To forget they ever loved the taste of bitter ink
The bloodless paper. The hopeless reach
Into the cluttered bag of itinerate kings
Snake oil salesmen ask tyrannical debts
For the taking from collective noise
What part do I play in this story?
Maybe the narrator maybe not the creator
Maybe just the witness, the Salieri
To life’s colorful Mozart
Unguarded I often find my heart skin soul
Tattooed into Celtic crosses foliated lines
From fallen fragments of the divine behind
The disappointingly human
Daughter of Eve
She’s strong enough to hold herself down
To tie her own hands for sin
Begin again. Begin again
Absolve her. She’ll never fly. Her hands are tied
She carries the words that pin her down
Like Arthur’s sword in sacred ground
She has tied her hands for sin
Begin again. Begin again
This City (a bit of visual poetry)
I’ve enjoyed creating images for bits and pieces of my poetry. You can read the full poem This City here. Thanks for visiting!
Find Your Story 