Thursday, July 25, 2013

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
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 

Saturday, July 13, 2013

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 ..
some to rise
some to fall
is evil but a masked myth
linked on our divine chain ....
ringed & outlined with a beer cozy & black lines thick ...
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

Wednesday, July 10, 2013


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 ...


child of summer
child of indigo

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

shhh ….

a silver-moon-hope

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

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

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

beeswax . . paper smooth night

sitting here
minding my beeswax . .
late, candles . . waiting for a storm
spaced & 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
minding the hollow
listening to the still . .
when suddenly the leather becomes
there is that thread, that bridge of sureness & I can not escape the tumble
my hand along your bended leg
& mine
I can't stop this electric pantomime and as my eyes close against the unexpected wet missing
I am feeling you ;
along the trapezius line, across the distance & 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
leather leads to paper ripe & richly worded
falling . . .
minding . . .
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 and
skin that melts me thru to crimson creeks
there - a birth-mark that resembles either a newly discovered star or
a super nova
minding . .
I can feel you
hands grasp, hold, pinch & stroke
and it is
and i will never be hollow . . .