Like a color bomb,
an anti-winter weapon
the wildflowers
explode
on the roadside.
Oh winter,
where is your sting?
A fragile army
overthrows
death’s regime.
Like a color bomb,
an anti-winter weapon
the wildflowers
explode
on the roadside.
Oh winter,
where is your sting?
A fragile army
overthrows
death’s regime.
“Tell me your dream
and I’ll tell you mine,”
you said.
I would
but I can’t find words.
Don’t you know
dreams are flighty things,
abstractions of
yellow, red, green?
They are made of
substance and light
or something like
ink and moonshadows.
Something spun together from/inspired by last Thursday’s Twitter poetry party, hosted by Tweetspeak Poetry! Wonderfully fun. Follow @tspoetry on Twitter for more National Poetry Month goodness.
She used to say she loved
those TV movies about Jesus,
but hated the crucifixion scene
even though it was toned down
in the grains of 1970s film,
palatable to the eyes of those
eating dinner in front of
a flickering screen.
This is us, now, knowing
how it all ends, knowing
in three days the lungs of God
would reinflate.
Knowing the ending, could I
ever comprehend the blackness,
ever imagine the darkest
Saturday in history?
A King’s body shrouded in spices
and linen lay withering
behind stone,
The budding bloom of salvation,
crushed
careless
trod by
His creation.
Oh my God
today the sun scatters clouds
the sun that once turned away
at your final earthly breath
and the lion lay shorn and still.
May I never forget
the darkest day of history,
spring stopped, waiting,
pressing her face
at the tomb’s door.
This March day is buried in
winter’s last ragged breath
and whitewashed bare trees,
and I know you’ve probably seen enough
after a long winter’s
sloshing and shoveling.
But to me
it looks like magic.
Maybe it was
Sigur Rós
in the speakers
or just a Monday
frame of mind,
seeking sanity
in noise,
But somehow I glimpsed
a plastic Publix bag
drifting on a breeze
just long enough to see it
billowing, suspended
like a shot
in some slow-moving
indie film,
or maybe
more like a jellyfish
propelling weightless.
A faint wind
whispers spring,
makes even trash
come alive.
Remember
thou art dust.
Remember
love is alchemy.
The only thing that
can animate ashes.
We make a clumsy march, these machines
gleaming in the winter sun,
a line of old sedans,
hulking SUVs,
and dirt-crusted trucks.
And the leader of our patched-up parade,
long, stern, and black,
plods on
flanked by flashing lights.
“There was a time when people pulled over,”
Dad says,
and on the two lane backroads
they do.
Work trucks, like beasts of burden
and old beaters with fading paint jobs
slide over and stop
where the dust blows up
scatters
settles
marking us all.
I.
This sacred space
feels so much bigger
inside,
and your “temple of art”
really could be a place
of worship.
Because in every shard of mosaic
every electrified crystal
every bend of colored light
I swear I could see straight to heaven
through the painted eyes of the Virgin
through the eyes of peacock feathers.
II.
All things fall into disrepair,
withered grass and falling night.
Morning comes,
light slanting from the east.
The fog burns away,
and dew glitters the earth.
I blink at the wonder
of a world turned mosaic.
For further reading…
About the Tiffany Chapel / Echo in the Temple of Art
“There’s a crack in your mug,”
she said,
noticing one single, sinuous
hairline fracture
etched from top to bottom,
a drip of coffee running through
the subtle
curve, like a two lane
country road
darkened by the rain.
But not even a drop
leaked through.
As I washed the mug and
scrubbed the stain
the crack disappeared.
I trace its line, and wonder if
it was ever there,
or how many other
ordinary things
have a web of outside cracks,
a map of fragile places
one tap
away from shattering
and if nightly I am washing
my own stains away.
Attempting a New Year creative goal (don’t call it a resolution) that I don’t want to explain yet lest I sabotage myself. Maybe if I hold out for a month first… :)
Also, hey, TS Poetry’s January theme is Coffee or Tea. I like those things and call it inspiring.
I forgot to say so here, but my little poem “Suadade” was featured in Every Day Poems’ December 31st newsletter! Hooray! Follow the link to read it with pretty art and the title correctly spelled.
