(WIP)

Like a color bomb, an anti-winter weapon the wildflowers explode on the roadside. Oh winter, where...

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 13:34:20 -0400

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

Sun, 07 Apr 2013 00:00:42 -0400

“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.

How It All Ends

Sat, 30 Mar 2013 21:09:44 -0400

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.

First Last Snowfall

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 22:34:20 -0400

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.

Weightless

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 18:45:38 -0400

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

Sun, 17 Feb 2013 23:20:54 -0500

Remember
thou art dust.
Remember
love is alchemy.

The only thing that
can animate ashes.

Processional

Sun, 03 Feb 2013 22:01:36 -0500

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.

Tiffany Chapel: 1893

Sun, 13 Jan 2013 23:27:00 -0500

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

Fracture

Mon, 07 Jan 2013 22:33:54 -0500

“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.

"Suadade" in Every Day Poems!

Wed, 02 Jan 2013 13:19:31 -0500

"Suadade" in Every Day Poems!:

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.

The Old & The New

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 11:04:58 -0500

A pair of New Year poems… drafted last year and cleaned up now. Happy 2013! Grace and peace to you in the coming year.

11:59

Sixty seconds of darkness.
Hold it tight,
feel time pulse
like a tiny heartbeat.

It smells of new mown grass,
electric-singed wires,
the smoke of fireworks,
the air of concert halls.

If it were the last
sixty seconds before
I followed the old year
into the dark

how would I let it go?

***

Midnight

The newness of a year
screams, explodes
into our world
in firework flash.

Like some alabaster jar
cracked open, poured over
to wash the old away,
perfume the new with promise.

Advent V: Christmas Day

Mon, 24 Dec 2012 23:21:00 -0500

Father, give us Christ.

Star Igniter,

Crack our darkness.

Send the rain to heal our deadness.

Only you make dry bones rise,

Dim the blinding lights that hide

Our fear, until we’re still enough

To feel the thaw of icy hearts.

In stable and by starlight

Overthrow our every expectation.

Our world inverts

Your kingdom comes.

Advent IV

Sun, 23 Dec 2012 00:00:29 -0500

Father, show us love.

This violent world tears

Hearts apart and

Leaves us trembling in our shame.

Like winter leaves afraid to fall

We cling and sting in bitter wind.

May you slip into our world,

Swift and slight as drifting snow,

Too fragile and helpless not to love.

In heaven’s most audacious act

Our cold suspicion

Melts in spring.

Fog & Lights (haiku)

Sun, 16 Dec 2012 21:00:09 -0500

The night mist descends
Blanketing a sleeping town,
Grey painted by lights.

Only in the fog
Do street lights come alive and
Warm us as we wait.

Little contribution to haiku month at TS Poetry.

Advent III

Sun, 16 Dec 2012 00:30:07 -0500

Father, teach us joy.

The Christmas feeling

Lost its meaning

In flashing lights, electric dreaming.

We race and chase and check a list

Until the days are gone amiss.

May you call us in our carols

In our traffic, in our deadness

And give our harried hearts the chance

To feel the wonder once again

Like waiting children

With nothing to dread.

Advent I & II

Mon, 10 Dec 2012 11:10:23 -0500

Father, grant us hope.

The veil of darkness

Thick around us

Is within us, and without us.

Our secret sins and sicknesses

So mingled in our blood.

May the smallest flicker of

Your holiness come spark and light

To keep us warm and

One day burn our

Hollow kingdoms all away.

II

Father, make us ready.

This ground is fallow

We have followed

Crooked paths to vales of shadow

The cracked and drought-laced dust of earth

Thirsts and groans beneath our feet.

May we know both thirst and longing

So when the rains come

To wash us clean

We will not run for shelter’s awning

But welcome the storm

Arms wide, hearts alive.

This Advent, I’m sharing a five part poetry series at my main blog, but I realized I should probably post them here as well. So here are the first two parts. Follow along and check out the lovely accompanying artwork by my friend Tina here and here.

Gathering/Letting Go (NovPAD:20)

Sat, 24 Nov 2012 22:51:49 -0500

Behind on NovPAD prompts. Oh well. Tuesday the 20th’s written tonight. True story.

In stillness, thoughts gather,
running rivulets and raindrops.
I have rushed too long,
worried too much,
slept too little.

Tonight
I gather them in words
and one by one
release them
into the atmosphere.

Glosa (NovPAD:18)

Mon, 19 Nov 2012 00:21:52 -0500

Well this was fun. Day 18 calls for a glosa, a poetic form I never heard of, and a fun chance to riff on T.S. Eliot a bit. I did not consider how hard it is to find words that rhyme with children. Inspired by this and this.

The Garden

Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, 
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
 Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
 Cannot bear very much reality. ~ T. S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton”

I went down one day to the garden gate
Just to hear the voices laughing
Because I missed some part of the past,
Forgot what it felt to be young, though
I am not so old. The sun warmed the air
And I breathed deep memories of the garden,
Listening for a blue jay, wondering where they’ve gone,
When I last heard the call of that wild bird.
Somewhere in the trees, his voice is hidden.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,

Playing hide and seek with my memories
And I hear the past in the rustling leaves
Remembering summer days, when the sprinklers
Were glittering curtains for cooling, splashing,
And clouds became walking mountains in the sky,
And maybe we could catch them, running after
Something like being grown up.
What do you want to be? They call,
As if the future were something I could capture,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.

Could I go back? I couldn’t, but would I
When time, time, time marches ever on?
Would I steal a draught from a dried-up fountain
Of youth, just to run with them again?
Could we untaste Eden’s tainted fruit?
Remembering the pure and innocent mind
But knowing the depths of wonder now
Would I trade it all for a sip, to turn back
The clock? But when I asked for more time,
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind

Is the only creature preoccupied
With deadlines and long-term goals
With settling down and making something
Of ourselves. What if we saw time
Not as a thing to race or run out,
Not cash to manage, or temporary.
All is short but I hear my beginning
Singing toward my end. She’s there
And I know, somehow this ghost-like mortality
Cannot bear very much reality.

Foreign Word (NovPAD:10)

Sun, 11 Nov 2012 21:34:00 -0500

Day 10’s prompt says to work in a foreign word. “Saudade” is a wonderful little Portuguese word with a lot of weight, sort of like “sensucht” but a little prettier to say. Also, this is a true story.

Saudade

Like ghosts become flesh for the first time
we came to the land of the living
tasted the bread
sipped the wine
spoke the language of belonging.

In a tent on a hill walled by green
we gathered for one more meal.
I watched twilight
dance with candlelight
and breathed in a hint of truly alive.

Can you be sick for a home you’ve never seen?
Sometimes the curtain flutters,
and I catch a glimpse
of a fawn in the shadow
that bids me to follow.

I can’t. Not yet.
But I am coming home.

Response poem (NovPAD:8)

Sat, 10 Nov 2012 09:51:32 -0500

Day 8’s prompt was “talk back to a dead poet.” Mine is less like a rebuttal and more like “what, you too?” to one of my favorite poets.

***

“Hope is the thing with feathers / that perches in the soul” ~ Emily Dickinson

I know something of this little bird,
how her voice whispers in a storm
and warms the starless night,
how her wings flutter, beat my heart
when wonder passes by,
how some nights when I like awake
I feel a feather light
to say I never was alone
and bid me come rejoin the song.