what is this heaven
that you should reach to me
some modern marley’s ghost
warning
(just that the veil is thin
on longest coldest nights
a snowscape
of when you fell?)
or a gentle messenger
sent to wake me
from selfish dream—
roasted meat, mulled wine
hot fire
Frost-night church bells
dim, no night of angels but
blaring electric light—hark!
the child who came, the Son
the man with never a place
to lay his head but
shallow alleys, shopping malls
gray-sky corners, caves
We all converged on the great city
we who worshiped power
and its palaces, comfort
for cold and sore feet
while these my brothers
hurried and howled
these my sisters
huddled head-down
All this distance
from heaven to earth
woman to man to man
empty and full asking why
and when would he come
again?
while we wonder if God sees, agree
it is not about our comfort
(in blaming we find comfort
flame about injustice
and how to fix what
philosophies
oh! Other)
sparrows
fall
Warring with my better self:
things I ought to feel
against this cranky habit
of being me, usually
(almost always) right, for decades
queen of my own castle
thinking now, how to make room
for another. Bend, will! Open, soul!
Find that mustard seed of generosity
and let it bloom, suddenly
easy as stilling the storm
with a word
The devil had me by the throat
that summer—no not by the throat
but yes by the throat or why
could I not sing
or sleep for thinking
he had me by the wrists
these idle hands
Why should you gain the whole world
and forfeit your song? Contentment
elusive as that hummingbird
just there in your stillness
and gone
My enemy sleeps
a tent-peg through his skull.
I am blessed for my deed
while his mother wails
Are they not finding and dividing
the spoils of war?
and this blood drowns
the voices singing—
I have no more heart
nor sleep.
1. Devil’s Workshop
One tangled scarf-skein
fails; I no longer want this
choking cloud color
2. Budget Accommodations
On shoestring of doubt
you get the whole shiny house
hollow, echoing
haunting the way you wanted
yesterday, buyer’s remorse
In those empty days, formless
planets mere swirls of gas
(glass-blown and blackly
beautiful in vast starry array)—
no need to divide
deep water from the heavens
for hell held no fury until
the very gentleman, long-fused
blew up at human
incompetence
the skeleton of our desire
for better we clothe
with travel, culture
as if our parler and sprechen
and uphill castle-trekking
can help (if we but)
will it?
our newfound taste
for bulgogi and kebap
stops no starvation
heals no hearts
prays no peace
unless
on the other side
when the rich robes fall
we find the bones
upright and light
love still in power
pulsing through
this life-cage
Remember when we hid in the caves
late dust swirling in red sun and talked
of home, imagined roses blooming
thorn-berries yet green and sour, river
foam-cold? We had the king within reach
but were too fearful—proud—young—to grasp
the hem of his robe. Remember how
the cedars howled with the storm of it
wind rushing like undammed water through
the desert valley heaped with his dead
and ours, and you lay huddled, fevered
by the fire? I went out long before
the cliffs should have echoed new birdsong
to watch the armies march clacking, bone-
white, on and on into morning
Graceful Press Poetry 