glass baubles, walls so thin its seems they would melt at a touch glittery as neon or stars that light the nights path from sinner to saint its all wrapped in tissue of conjecture and parable passed down from mother to daughter gaudy decorations hanging from an evergreen bough
The solstice candle holds its flickering flame
feeble against the gloom of the long night.
Moon, cold and dark in the night sky,
clotting the stars in a blot of emptiness.
Moonless and humble, the candle still burns
reflecting its light in hope, incandescent,
withstanding even the deepest cold
and sparking the helpless soul,
undone at the final turn
of the one true axis.
All hearts turn
to the returning light,
second by second, death is overcome
and resurrection is upon us, rising
lighthearted in the new day and grace filled joy
of spring’s eternal desire and grave emptying flame.
its the insistence of grace
the cajoling and prodding
that makes it such a nuisance
it will not let me be
lost
only found
again and again and again
The years ending is tangled in bindweed-
its filamental arms reaching from summer into winter.
Bound by tangles
of bittersweet and honeysuckle-
I feel it deep in my chest,
the bitter and the sweet,
such days of bliss and anger,
frustration and harmony.
I wish I could remove the bad
and leave the good
but it is all too tangled-
the vines interlaced in my ribs,
rising up my throat
to be released each time I open my mouth-
its tangled in thought
and desire
and responsibility
all too nimble
all too green
all too restricting –
I sharpen my machete.
benedícimus te
maybe she’s like any
body
walking the sidewalks
or dusty roads
or the narrow places,
pushing a baby carriage
filled with
dreams
or broken dolls
or aluminum cans
she picked up on busy streets
where no one saw her
as they pushed past
the rushing wings
of sparrows
and angels
as she makes her way
to the manger
*** This was written to remind myself to be aware of those around me and to always look for the extraordinary in the ordinary.
wandering angels congregate
amongst the wind tossed cedars
filling the branches with wings and song
gloria gloria
peace be with you this day
Prince of Peace, a name we reach out to,
we call to, yearning for peace in our turbulent times
our turbulent minds
gloria gloria
peace be with you this day
peace be with you this day
The disc turns the soft fragrant earth
across the spring fields while
small moon faced calves caper
and lark,
whisking their tails in triumphant and ridiculous joy.
Ahh Spring-
you dress in Edens green,
(you Eve!)
(you Adam!)
drawing us into the garden
from which we all fled-
where moon faced angels
caper at each fence post,
their wings tangled in sweet honeysuckle
and ridiculous joy.
(The amygdala and hippocampus
receive the information
from the olfactory bulb
before routing it to the thalamus,
already conjuring memories
before awareness of the scent
is formed in the conscious mind.)
Four eggs perch in my grandmother’s bowl
among the fragrant tangerines,
ready to take a crack into the citrus-y batter
where the luscious dates await.
The air is scented with oranges
and roasting pecans,
the fragrance from a kitchen
that no longer exists.
I found that thing which had been lost.
Though to be honest,
I hadn’t realized it was lost.
In fact,
I had not thought of it in the least
for …
I have no idea how long.
But there it was-
in all its glory.
The thing that had been lost
or misplaced
or forgotten
was here.
In my hand.
It was now remembered.
A memory attached.
To always be that thing
that had been lost,
now found.
In three acrostics
Holding
Onto a
Presumption of
Expectation
Having
Only a
Pale belief for
Edens rapture
Hearing the sound
Of angels voices
Pealing good news
Eclipsing time and story
thecourseofourseasons 