Anything, but Gracefully

The aging body churns
as if the spirit that is growing strong
might need protection--

mail to keep the punishment away,
flagellation of thoughts not worthy,

stung by a whipping
that will not be forgotten.

My voice is nasal and raw
from crying.
I cannot comprehend the way past
rivers and ferrymen.

I have given away so many coins
I must wait and pray
with my hands cupped
as a beggar

or silent
in meditation
for wisdom to bless me
with riches of a youthful mind.

Before the Light Leaves

Milling around the corners of my mind
slick thoughts tumble like fish migrating home.

It is not enough to sit still for hours
willing my heart to be silent.

The imagination is always looking
for memory that whistles before the light leaves.

The Color of Sky

 I weave the fabric of days,
lost and gathered into quilts
and downey comfort,
to be the art of our lives
with no question of unexplainable value.

The trough where we feed the creatures
of burden is clean.
There is no mildew or foul smell
in the stalls or on the earth.
There is only the soft sounds of a warm barn
and the breath of all who sleep
is peaceful and full of life.

When spring comes again
the earth will take me by the hands
and ask me to touch the warmth of the body
with healing and seeds of new life.

When the sun melts all that is frozen
it will be more than enough
to open my mouth
and sing again.
These songs will carry me
until everything is green
and there is no mistaking
the fragrance of cotton, or wool,
or flax the color of sky.

Turning On My Own Cells

As my body folds in on itself,
I become the cannibal
turning on my my own cells,
the flesh surrendering to a hungry mind
that will not stop repeating herself.
A work song, the hymn that will not
leave my thoughts alone.

I salivate. Gag.
I choke on my own words.
The sounds of forgiveness
stuck in my throat
like a fine fish bone
pointed and sharply
embedded in that darkness.

What more can I slip into this sheath
like a blade, sharp and shining for blood?

I cut carefully
at the threads
that become the stitches
that hold me together
at the end of the day.

A Body Forgetting

In the incline of our days
we all must meld our memory of joy
with the common sense of watches, walking shoes,
and lists made to burnish our ego,

to feel accomplished and shining,
a trophy to bring home,

to varnish the wounds we carry
as we forget to be tough
and forget there are words
and so many nights
that are far better alone
than suffering

near a body
that has forgotten
to breathe.

Substitute

In the depths of the sinful mind
I substitute everything I know
with the truth.

Simple explanations
open conversation like an oyster,
pearl at the center
blushing,
with irrefutable evidence
of all my failings.

My skin sags
and has been gouged
by time.
And yet, I smile
infectiously
despite the  risks
of appearing
uninformed.

I refuse to hide what I know
like a spy on a mission.
I will abandon the ignorant paths
that have not served me.

This time I have vowed to acquire a map
and ask questions
often.

The Arc of My Confusion

The arc of my confusion
and fear are near geometry

while my mouth dries,
dessication plods onto the scene

like an animal
injured and lost,

I stumble senile
across the desert mind

Waiting for wisdom
to save the day from the winds

of so much sadness
and the recognition

that robins flying are not to be scattered
like leaves blown free

from cracked and broken branches
mistaken for signs
of spring.