too . .

to be 'too' …

too much of this, not enough of that
how can the deck be so stacked
fools respond to the too ....
by shaming & poking and cutting in two
the skin & bone
the wings & heart
dissecting & mocking while standing apart
too many colors, too much spark
can you be higher on some fools list ?
can you be pretty, with not so much grist ?
can you quiet, behave & comply ?
can you be thinner, you won't even try ?
too much of this, 

not enough that
I plead and I bargain but god's not called back
to crumble & fold ... retreat to the kingdom
of castles & princes - the storybook syndrome
questing thru trails 

of bramble & vine

to come to a crossroad
and
discover a spine
to rise from our ash-self .. to repair the bones ....
to strap on wings & fly away home ....
we come to the party 

all tattered & teased
only to see that our own soul is the key …

too much of this, not enough that
balance lies there,
when you pull the feathers back 

sunrise . . . after a dark night

what causes our psyche to slip to to one side
and not the other ....
fractures lie
ever present
ever waiting ... open & raw
part of our carbon crystal selves ..
reflecting
refracting
some to rise
some to fall
is evil but a masked myth
or
linked on our divine chain ....
ringed & outlined with a beer cozy & black lines thick ...
loss
&
fear - colliding
a response ... an ego'd step to
quiet madness ....
others bridge those dark chasms
with the orange light of love & dawn's fragility ....
spanned & connected
shining the light ... above
to stars & saviors
holding ... hope

generation

it appears

you look
for the easy way . . .
no rocks, no highways, no break of day
free of garments
free of pain
halcyon days of
play ...

and
grain

child of summer
child of indigo

… with fists curled in rage
and
arms sky-wide
you take the purse
and
steal the thunder
only to hold the fey inside

shhh ….
quietly 

you
fill
with
a silver-moon-hope

blazing a truth-trail
thru weeds
and
rye
of storms kicked up by the boots of love-soldiers
as stories tender the fire inside

child of the stone sheep
and
child of the columbine
wearing the tilted crown
seasons roll past with tempered precision
as your bones
anchor
to holy ground

beeswax . . paper smooth night

sitting here
minding my beeswax
wax
late
candles
waiting for a storm
minding space
spaced and weary
hollowness ringing buzzing beating in my ears
bones heavy with the nights gravity
thumb rubbing the borders of this book
repetitive finger-chanting
leather smooth & limitless
repetitive
minding the hollow
listening to the still
when suddenly the leather
becomes
you
there is that thread, that bridge of sureness & I can not escape the tumble
my hand along your bended leg
hard
mine
can't stop this electric pantomime and as my eyes close against the unexpected wet missing
of feeling you
along the trapezius line
across the distant & pulsing quadrants
across shoulders
slowly finding my way
i have become lost here before--in the tracing of fibers & skin
i will not be lost will not be lost will not be lost
leather leads to paper ripe & richly worded
smooth
falling .
minding
finding
your neck
scars that sing to me of a city in snow, brisk & deep
sparks & tingles of the ever
moonlight turning everything cashmere blue
it's cold
but i will keep you warm
minding
trailing the chant
down your arm across muscles
tendons--crystal bones
skin that melts me thru to crimson creeks
there--a birth-mark that resembles a newly discovered star or
maybe
a super nova
there
minding
I can feel you
hands grasp hold pinch & stroke
release
and it is
now
minding
and i will never be hollow