Hastening Home

In the charred and curved motion of the morning
let me hasten home to justify my flammable self.

Let me hasten to the home where God smiles with verification
and justice for the small things that collect in the corners
of the heart waiting to burst into flame
only to be shaped and moved to the middle
of this constant longing.

These volumes of words and contracts with the mind
are bound together in themes of color like dreams
and other lives unlived
or unloved.

I want the urgent love
that has me watching the clock
until the minutes drag me to the finish line
and I anticipate the exact fluttering breath
just before turning the key in the lock

and calling out your holiest name
in welcome and surprise.

I Will Not

It is not my mission
to ever be the martyr.

I will not grovel
at the feet of the fractures

fallen and broken on the ground;
edges sharp and spiritually dangerous.

There will be no sighing
or gnashing of words
to make an impression
or grabbing the hand
of a vulnerable stranger
for sympathy.

Instead, let me volunteer
the drab truth:

Life is messy,
love is often
imperfectly cruel,
and fair is fictionally
dysfunctional.

This heart is the seldom wise guide
we must learn to trust.

The Single Strand

Most mornings my mind
is the detective
finding clues after sleep,

grimacing at the exhibition
of the exact ways
the night has undone me,
torn apart my confidence
like a bundle of tattered sheets
and forced the mandatory examination
of what was the past.

This endurance race
is a competition against
the time kept by the heart.

The heart sits silently
arms crossed in judgement
waiting for the thief
to give himself up
for good.

Finally, giving back
that precious gift
of light shining
on the single strand
of a delicate web thread
that was missing all along.

The Companion of a Man

This is the story
of how we were all
once the companion of a man
who mauled our soul
with corrosive emotion
and grief.

The hand was bound
as it always is
in a shield
over another silent mouth
where no singing
was aloud.

The man didn't love the warble of our days,
but only counted the abundance of others
who were not his to count.

We wriggled free of the confines
of that greed and cloying closet of untruths
and walked as if our kettle was fully of new wine
and not of bitter boiled and then cold tea.

"Be faithful,"
he said
"Why do you loveth me not?"

We are gone to the sea
and the light of another
where he will never find the lonely heart
or the wise mind of many again.

This is that story
of loss and so much
more than grief.

Bringing Back the Living

The supple curve of the mind
beseeches a distant thought
to venture out

into the open spaces
where I left you
like a shard
of a shattered clay pot,

admonished for an unknown sin
or some unspoken emotion forgotten,
slouching near a silent cradle,

lost in a dark cravasse
or a echoing tomb
waiting for prayers
and intercessions
to bring back
the living.

Before We Fly

Robins gather together
like we do
sensing the end
of abundance will arrive
soon

breath cold
and shivering together
like we do
in the darkness
lonely

Our breasts,
once bright as feathers
and full of hope,
are fading
and falling
silently.

Where we are going
there will be stars
and moving winds
and rain
like endless love
before we fly.

Lighting A Candle

It is simple.

Light a candle.
Let it glow
in the window
so that love
might travel
to the heart
of the one
that is leaving

and pray,
pray,
pray.

Let the simplicity of a welcome smile
walk with confidence on the same path
where kindness of gathers
around a table open to grace
holding the hand of the departing soul

and prays;
prays,
prays.

It is simple.

Light a candle.

Pray.