Whistle

What it would be to whistle,
thrill to a shiver
like a loyal canine
to the master
precise and at the heel,

but I wander
lost and full of burrs and thistle seeds in my coat,
roam through the fields
waiting for my own heart to call me
to bed and hearth
and a place to call my home.

No Words

When there are no words
I am left to my imagination,
to my prayers and to the place where my skin
ends and the parts
that cannot be touched
live.

When there are no words
I thrash about like a fussy child,
to where the wind and fire of the northern sky
started the force of my will to burning
wild on the canvas of the night.
howling.

When there are no words
I crumble in despair,
tears falling
to the blank pages of the dictionary in my mind,
scanning the paper for the dust of letters uttered softly,
that might give meaning to the empty bowl
I am becoming,

giving away days like they aren't numbered,
casting them into the waters that flow
fast and cold away,
speechless,
poems
with
no
sound.

Taking Her Place

The evulsion of reality from fiction
is a tired and haunting history of suffering --
a certain kind of given
on days, like today, when the neck is vulnerable.
shaved to the nape
and instinctively exposed
like the Beta dog
waiting to be bitten
like a lactating bitch
taking her place
in the pack.

Understanding the Defiance of Rain

Rebuke the sky for letting Heaven's tears
cloud the sky when Orion is so set on shining.

This astral display of defiance is like an adolescent
sulking in his room alone after disappointment
when this brilliant song of water was meant to be shared,

a diurnal celebration of the ordinary 
gains strength in all the ways
memory gathers in annual clusters
until the calendric rhythm of the universe

forgives us for wanting
the glossy pink assurance of sunrise.

The Deacon of My Ancestors

The deacon of my ancestors
knocks at the door of my memory
asking me to consider the hunger of the soul
that we all feel
when we wake in the morning
the pangs of this glottal stop
clouds our aura, darkens the skies
with doubt.

The deacon of my ancestors
would rather sleep in.
Would gladly pass the time
at the beach while fanning the flies
from her trashy novel about nothing
than distribute another century of needs
to unwilling followers
facile in their beliefs
that they know best
how to serve the poor
their rations of humility.

Instead, the deacon of my ancestors
is heavy of heart
hanging her head in shame
for so many failures.

We are unworthy
of even her scorn.

We deserve the swift judgement of 
 an angry God
who loves us while he teaches
us a lesson.

Splitting Her Skin

Touch me, bathed and processing slowly
from salty waters and high tide,
the ordinand for this priesthood
filled with obscene laughter,
and I might split in two,

body separating from soul
like a snake
splitting her skin
and leaving the remnants behind in the sand
with no pain but for the growth in the spaces
between bones,

the ligaments lengthened and separated with gentle tugging
at all the unclean and confusing junctions
of loss and humanity swirling around me.

Glance at these smooth shadows of thoughts and judgements
that are following me like a thief and you might see sweat rolling
impossibly from the poetry of my lips.

I slither
on my belly,
low and straddle the earth
knowing, finally, that I understand all this sin

and all the ways we have forgotten
we are one with the flesh of God.

We Must Come Home to Remember

The baptism of the awake mind,
the sacred flux of spirit into body,
is hungry like fire
needs air
to breathe.

This garden, peckish for flowers
and the fruit, that flummoxed
mothers and fathers into pitching
the good sense to listen
to God, is fading at the edge
of the coldest of seasons.

Eyes wide open
we dive in to the icy current

forgiving ourselves

for forgetting

what we must come home
to remember.

Hear the language of love
and weep for joy
at that sweet song.