The Wailing

 I wail,
suffering the ways of shame,
embarrassed and broken
by an embrace
so tight
I can't escape.

I wail,
enduring the weeping
and the moaning of those left behind
to carry the load
without companion
to sing the hyms
and the work songs
of those who harvest joyfully
in the golden fields
and the heat
of summer.

Wailing,
I clutch my throat
and cast my voice to the winds.
Take me with hurricane force from this silence
of a prison cell of my own making
so that I might learn to sing.

The Dirt Eaten by the Roots

Thoughts leach from my head
like soil in an old potted plant;

the dirt eaten by the roots,
absorbed by the hungry base
of hunger and brilliant sun
united.

Bond with the steady
and sturdy exchange of bodies
where a story opens us up
and makes us whole,

just like the man
who stumbles
in the shallow river
and a storm takes us
from everything

but the darkness
after the light of one long day
is like coming home.

A Poem for Love

The heart has no idea of the vigilance present
each morning
the mind must court constant despair and threat
of ruin while guarding
a vast kingdom of kindness
armored in solid emotional steel
before we fall
victim to the blade
that will cleave the beating,
the motion of the traveler,
blood from bone,
muscle from gristle
until we are all free to love
what we love
and give the keys
to the angels
armed with arrows
and  flattery.

A simple poem
for all the love
in the heavens--

singing until you know
better.

Ashes

Ashes and this crude body always intrude
on the peace made in the soul place
away from the stunned and shaking faithful
who no not what to do with all this love.

Take the scythe and carefully cut away the unsightly grasses
that have gathered around the base of fence posts
and under the feet of strangers who travel
not for God, but for the ways of so many men.

I crumble in prayer
on holy days
like these
and only hope for heat and hope
to light the way for the promise
of ashes.

 The gaudy color of peace
is just out of reach,

the faucet turned to kill the flow
only to hear the dripping continue, hoping
against this tide.

I will mediate with this language of silence
and whet my soul's whistle long enough to hear me sing
before the lever turns and opens the floodgates
to everything.

Western Dreaming

In the repeating dream of my childhood
I am the oldest child again
shielding my siblings from evil,

a giant in a valley who hunts us,
wants to take us prisoner
or worse.

In these night movies
we walk endlessly,
perspire as we try to find our breath
and hide behind greenest vegetation,
mounds of dirt.

My sister's red hair flounces
attracting attention
as if she glows.  I cover her head
so that the gods can't find her
and she becomes invisible.

I feel guilty
when we lose her.
She drifts off
and my brothers
have no idea what direction is north
nor do they have access to the power
of violence that eats us alive.

We back into cave after cave
and know the only safety
is to keep moving.

Silences

The calliope of sound turns quickly in my head,
pressure builds as if these thoughts might split my skull,

a fissure racing the mind to the finish
of days where peace might never be found.

Hairline cracks build momentum.
walking too far out on ice
that will never support me.

The sounds explode under my feet
deep booming before I sink under the cold water,
before any warm hand dares to grasp for me
and pull me to the disappointing surface.

There is no device that can bring the breath
back into these lungs that wonder about red birds
and singing. There is nothing that remembers flight.

Let the winds take this soul of grief
to the ends of the prairie
where the silences are as great as the sky
and I can become dizzy with so much emptiness.



Pressure device fissure calliope