Turning Things Around

This myopic view of plodding endlessly
toward nowhere and brandishing dull and rusting blades

is exactly like a thresher walking an already cut field,
exhausting even on days of victory and adequate harvest.

We who keep walking are all deeply tired
and wish the web of the world was not so tangled and torn.

We imagine putting one foot in front of the others
and applying equal pressure to the skull and to the heart.

Here we must watch carefully
as the vanquished masses
take flight into the wide open spaces
with small wounds bleeding
into the overworked soil
until the plow is found
to turn things around.

Floundering

Some days I flounder for virtue,
my ego promenading past the faults of others,
my head held higher than it usually does.

On days when pride will not vanish
and I quake with anger
at some blemished mark on the face of injustice,

shave the heat of embarrassment from my cheeks
so that I won't let tears fall
or need to malinger over nothing.

Let the tangled mutation of the soul of another
heal me with kindness.

Let me not sink into the darkness
where all who suffer
lose their way
over and over again.

Mercy looks like my sister
when I can trace that profile
with my blistered fingers
at the closing of all time.

The Pageant

The round faces of all the children
have turned their attention again to the squirming, swaddled child
marking the travels they have made
through the lines of the pageant they know so well.

Each cheek is smudged with a bit of frosting or chocolate
from the plundered goodies gathered as offerings
too near the stage.

The littlest angels are free - range in this production,
howling like the coxswain in a lifeboat set adrift,
and the olders expunge small hurts and fear with cooing voices
like salve they have learned from their mothers.

We witnesses are silently healed
in the retelling of the ancient story.

The star shines dimly above halos and gossamer wings.
Behold!

The magic drifts in on the wisps of incense
and floats on the sounds of voices
lifted on the notes shaped onto the trestle
of all our modest prayers.

Fist on the Table

The tensile mood at this gathering
suffocates the path
to freedom again.

There is no vaccine
for the poison of the ego
and the tunnel into which
it forces our many vibrant thoughts.

If you dare,
let the wide open ocean
break the way to salty tears of love.

If you dare,
sail away from the grief
to a place where no one recognizes
the way that you walk
or the color of your hair.

This departure will be the fist on the table
demanding the respect you've always been entitled
to drape calmly over your shoulders
before falling into the arms of the beloved.

Hummingbird

In many places near the equator
it is said that hummingbirds carry the souls
of departed warriors
returning to fight another fight.

Slowly, as if the sun is giving birth to light for the first time,
we have been converted into that kind of beauty
and covert power that so many are hungry for.

There are so many days when we'd rather escape
than be drained by Narcissa
and all her drab minions scrapping
for the same mirror.
The slashing and flashing
unseemly at best.

Wisely, the hummingbird hovers above it all
choosing the exact flowers to favor
before the subduction of each morsel of truth
is blathered away by all the mindless color.

In this jungle,
impatient wings flutter
on the unsubstantial breezes
until the cacophony of ignorance
passes away.

Body Intelligence

Please send me notes
from the lecture I was unable to attend.
My body's wisdom
won the battle
over a busy day
full of nothing.

Send me the notes
that will fill in the blanks
in the collective memory of the world
we will never regret missing.

Send me the sacrilegious lyrics
chanting disharmony
into the investments
in meaningless activity.

These words I will burn
in the fire that will warm me
at the break of another day.

My hands will no longer ache
resting over the heart of my love
while sleep consumes unnecessary fatigue.

My legs and knotted back
will lift the heavy burden of nonsense
into the compost pile of forgetfulness.

And my teeth, cracked by gnashing
and clenching into a Mona Lisa smile,
will be restored and made bright

knowing
that all this flesh
and vanity
is impermanent.

No Need

Confound me again
with your bareknuckled love
like the gardener
taking to the damp earth in May.

I am already mesmerized by the threads of longing
that pull me through the darkness of another deep December.
Your kindling of kindness is constantly flickering in a circle of light
that polishes the blackness, soothing and liquid,
brushing such honest warmth on my cheek.

There is no need to joust or thresh my mind for meaning here.
All my doubts wither with each day of standing tall,
bravely facing the steely eyes
of all that is burnished at sunset
and unmistakably marked
by one who knows

the true names of God.