Wednesday, February 29, 2012

New Wine


I wipe my face
and come away --
I am bleeding
somewhere deep inside.
Given, not enough
to kill,
but still.
I'm bleeding
full and bright.
I am pouring out
of myself;
I cannot be contained.
A broken vessel
will not hold
new wine.
Old skins burst,
they break;
I bleed.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Lifting Up


Today I saw for myself
What I had heard
Of the brotherhood of geese --
How from a perfect V, the leader
Cedes his place to the ones who fly behind.
As I watched, the line opened again and again
Like arms of graceful dancers
Going slowly up and down,
Swan Lake in flesh and air.
But what I saw, really,
Was the connectedness of things --
How arms are made for holding out,
For lifting up, for helping others fly,
How this is simply known and shared
And shown without decree or rule or word,
How I can gain such wisdom
From gazing at the morning sky
And witnessing the beauty of the birds.

Friday, February 17, 2012

Hitchins Visits Heaven


Christopher Hitchins, author, essayist, journalist, and avowed atheist, died in December, 2011. Hitchins was the author of The Portable Atheist and God is Not Great. Of course, these are not the only things he wrote or did, but they are the ones that came to my mind when I heard he had died, as did the following:

Hitchins Visits Heaven

I wouldn't want to be him
on his deathbed,
or better even,
now he's passed along --
to wake and find himself
all dressed in white robes
and listening to those sweet
celestial songs.

I hear him ask, "And you, sir,
who might you be?"

I listen to the Voice
that gently tells,
"I, sir, am your maker;
you may call me
Yahway or whatever
else they tell."

"You don't exist! "I hear
old Hitchens cry out.

"And would you care
to touch Me?"
He responds.
"But that worked
only with young Thomas,
and still you doubt Me
even though you saw
that I had given
some on earth to love you
and some on earth
to help you on your way,
a world of beauty,
fame and wealth to keep you,
and you, sir, still,
you chose to lose your way.
Who do you say that I am,
Mr. Hitchens?
Before whom do you think
you stand this day?"

Hitchens said, "I call you

"Then, you, sir, I say,
take yourself away!
You shall dwell alone
forever lonely,
away from hope of solace
or of friend
to read your words or listen
to your musings --
alone and separated
in the end."

Hitchens drew himself up
to his full height.
He shook his head
and held his chin up high,
"I'd rather dwell in darkness
than acknowledge!
I choose my fate!"

In hubris, now he lies.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Sissy in Rehab

Sissy in Rehab

Little do they know
she loves to grunt --
there's nothing she likes more
than sweat and strain;

It gives her time to think
and plan and plot
and focus on the motion,
not the pain.

She longs to see
a product from her toil,
so up and down
and up and down again

the track she walks,
a rut that subdues soil
and quiets questions
tumbling in her brain,

like who and why and where,
and who again?
And will it be okay
and where and when?

She soon forgets
she's aiming for the top
lets go the stone,
is sliding once again.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Love Lines

I do love lines (of verse), of course, and I have written other love lines and posted them at other times, but for today, for right now, these are the ones:

Love's Workshop

A jagged blade,
Rough cut, 
Made for demolition;
Nothing austere,
You chew through
Sinew and bone,
Leave bloodstains
On the cold stone floor.

And this one for my much-loved husband...

Global Memories, Permanent

I want to 
thank you
for seeing me 
through darkness,
for handing me 
my memory,
for holding on
when everything
was gone.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

As the Crow Flies

As the Crow Flies

It's only a short way after you cross the first bridge
as the crow flies, as they say.
Just shake the coal from your clothes
and the black from your boots
and walk the road between there and here.
You'll know it when the sky falls flat
and the land rolls beneath your feet,
when the creek ignores the treasure in your grip,
when the day holds light instead of dark.
You'll feel it in the way the crow flies straight
between who you were and who you are
with or without your permission.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Perfect Tense

Perfect Tense

In our house,
we have no verb
for past;
everything is current,
bleed sticky bright,
beat in our ears
with the rush rush rush
of Now.
Nothing goes away;
it stays,
and we cradle
each minute
tender as an infant
in our DNA.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

A Simple Upstairs Room

I saw this photo on someone's blog a week or so ago -- forgive me, but I can't remember whose (see previous post - heh). Anyway, the image has rumbled around in my mind until this:


A simple upstairs room
usually shared by two,
different now.
The floor clear of shoes,
books by the bed
stacked and sprawled,
screaming to be read
or simply caressed,
cold, neglected,
crying for a hand.
A simple upstairs room
usually shared by two,
deserted now.
Shirt still on the peg,
heart still beneath
the cover of the bed.