The closets and chest of drawers

wardrobe

 

When the rusted cut of coffee

slices through

tetnus express, I embrace

what I cannot change.

When morning breaks the mourning

of the weeping soul I left in the closet

last night, I will embrace

the embers of

the smoldering tribe.

Placing delicate fingers

retracing precious memories

the dust covered photo books

could never measure up

something tangible

something credible

If only I could touch the light

that dances off of the dust

dancing to the breeze

of my movements.

Yet, stuffing my demons

back into the chest of drawers

catching fingers along the way

I am content to remove

the cobwebs from my soul

and start again.

Let it be…for now.

Sometimes logic fails

Image

violence prevails

life…gets lost in the details

Sadness descends 

like a thick fog 

blurring our vision 

obstruction of mission

and solitary admission 

is required.

The doldrums of the day

can never compare 

to living a peace 

despite acceptance 

often it evades us 

leaves us dejected

rejected and hopelessly 

infected with a burdened heart

could we overcome this? 

Could we find the light again? 

We fumble in the dark 

tripping over each other

sister and brother

hurting each other

can we truly overcome this? 

One day, 

one mighty 

and awesome day

this too will be but a dream

and when we wake 

the lights will be on. 

until then our little ambient 

of heart and strength 

must be enough 

so just let it be!  

Early Morning Fears

It’s five o clock in the morning

a small pajamaed body

creeps into our bed

silent as a shadow

shaking like a leaf

in the fall

dreams had turned

and now he churns

next to me,

breathing heavy on my neck

heating these old bones

forgetting how it used to be

when everything is possible

and nothing too hard to fathom

it’s five o clock in the morning

and we wake to encompass

our young soul with love

to help him brave through

the nightmares of tomorrow

…this too shall pass.

birthday gifts and yellowed pages

Image

I received a book

today

this my birthday

From a forgotten poet

He wasn’t famous,

 nor well known

the pages are yellowed

with age

 old and dusty

it smells like

mildew, library shelves

And wood varnish  

these pages

life is poured out

essence of heart

Etched with grace

Like sunrises on

Bright blue mornings

Crisp in spring time breezes

It was said also

Samuel Clemens

Was born with the rise

Of Haley’s comet

And passed it again

At the closing

Such a final chapter

Isn’t in this book

But only spoken

In whisper

Too loudly

Like creaking pews

In church

I wished I could have

Met them both

Yet still might

They be heard

If one listens hard

Enough

On waning breezes

And in the scent

Mildew, library shelves

And wood varnish

Thank you

For unread

chapters.

At 3:57AM

At 3:57 in the morning
I check and recheck
My red glowing alarm
Clock
I should be asleep
Running through
Dreams in my head
Fluttering eye kids
Like the flapping of
Wings
It’s 3:57am
Sleep has once
Again escaped
By window
Or by back door
I’m not sure
But I am not
Alone in the early
Hours before down
Below,
Just outside my
Bedroom window
A lonely snow plow
Is pushing up mounds
Of freshly fallen snow
There goes my driveway
Oh well….but as I lie
Here with eyes wide open
And ears alert to the ongoings
Outside
I believe that as this heart
Thumps to the rhythm of
The passing plow
We connect at some level
He and I
Both comrades before
The dawn
At 3:57 this one time
Chance encounter
Will go unnoticed by the plow
Though for me
And my sideways glances
At the crimson glow
I am content
To just lie here
For but a little while
Longer…

IF (Rudyard Kipling)

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! 

Rudyard Kipling

A Saint About To Fall

A saint about to fall,
The stained flats of heaven hit and razed
To the kissed kite hems of his shawl,
On the last street wave praised
The unwinding, song by rock,
Of the woven wall
Of his father’s house in the sands,
The vanishing of the musical ship-work and the chucked bells,
The wound-down cough of the blood-counting clock
Behind a face of hands,
On the angelic etna of the last whirring featherlands,
Wind-heeled foot in the hole of a fireball,
Hymned his shrivelling flock,
On the last rick’s tip by spilled wine-wells
Sang heaven hungry and the quick
Cut Christbread spitting vinegar and all
The mazes of his praise and envious tongue were worked in flames and shells.

Glory cracked like a flea.
The sun-leaved holy candlewoods
Drivelled down to one singeing tree
With a stub of black buds,
The sweet, fish-gilled boats bringing blood
Lurched through a scuttled sea
With a hold of leeches and straws,
Heaven fell with his fall and one crocked bell beat the left air.
O wake in me in my house in the mud
Of the crotch of the squawking shores,
Flicked from the carbolic city puzzle in a bed of sores
The scudding base of the familiar sky,
The lofty roots of the clouds.
From an odd room in a split house stare,
Milk in your mouth, at the sour floods
That bury the sweet street slowly, see
The skull of the earth is barbed with a war of burning brains and hair.

Strike in the time-bomb town,
Raise the live rafters of the eardrum,
Throw your fear a parcel of stone
Through the dark asylum,
Lapped among herods wail
As their blade marches in
That the eyes are already murdered,
The stocked heart is forced, and agony has another mouth to feed.
O wake to see, after a noble fall,
The old mud hatch again, the horrid
Woe drip from the dishrag hands and the pressed sponge of the forehead,
The breath draw back like a bolt through white oil
And a stranger enter like iron.
Cry joy that hits witchlike midwife second
Bullies into rough seas you so gentle
And makes with a flick of the thumb and sun
A thundering bullring of your silent and girl-circled island. 

Dylan Thomas

In His Returning (The Prodigal)

 

Image

 

If I am lost…

If these hands

no longer

Grasp you

If these feet,

Feeble and calloused

Refuse to inch forward

Static… and alone

If this body,

Aching and groaning

Heart ache

Life ebbing away

Flowing out more

Than flowing in

If this is who

I am now…

If I am found

If I am empty

Then I am powerless

I am a broken

Vessel

Used up

Dropped and shattered

 

If I am lost…

Who can save?

Who can save…me?

Because if I am lost

If I am indeed static

Like an empty radio signal

If this is me…

Who will rescue this…

This mess

Who would even dare

To care?

Everything flows out of me

Except for this empty

Am I my own worst

Enemy?  

Is there any hope left…

For me? 

 

Just when I pray

For the end…

The end of this

The end of all things

Within this broken

Shattered heart

Within the shell

Of an empty man

Something happens

It’s not desperation

nor spiritual exsanguination

 this mind has not

left for vacation

but something happens

from the outside

flowing life back into me

something I can’t explain

Fear replaces hopelessness

It ignites my fingertips

Ignites and increases my shallow breathing

Fear gives way to something

Long lost to me…

A warmth, blanket thick

Envelops me

I am assured

With arms around me

That I am safe

I am home

Was I lost?  Was I truly found?

Then I hear his words

In my ear

A feast for me

For me?  I don’t deserve anything but blame and guilt…for me?  My savior

My hope…turns and says to others near

This is my son…he was lost but now he’s found

My life, my love, my joy is returned to me

Come let us help him see

Let us celebrate in his

Returning. 

A Prayer

when the clouds have rolled back

when the pain cascading over 

has receded passed our broken hearts

when the tides of confusion too 

have drifted, current strong back into the deep

there, my soul, we will be free.

When the strength of ebb and tide

flows through our veins

when worries no longer drive us insane 

and the peace of the Divine 

enters us once again

that is where I will want to remain.

Don’t capsize me dear Lord

I am weak and without sword

but You have never left my side

through pain and sorrows been my guide

Provide Your light 

return my sight

All to You I give, all for You

I will live.

Before waking

In the hours before waking

the fluttering of the eyes

the creaking home 

chattering into the darkness

speaking life into 

the deep exhales of slumber

somewhere a dog barks

a car travel weary passes in the street

the light has yet to kiss

the curtains and bend its

warming grace onto eyelids 

closed and distant. 

In the time before waking

before the dawn

we journey far

and hope in joyous 

tomorrows. 

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑