Friday, March 25, 2016

Birth day

Little pearl, little bud, little bird
curled, never hatching

i held you furled and fingerless
in lightless warmth
my bones were singing for you

we had not even wrapped you up
in a name, or names --

I hold you in my dim mind, still,
contained and secret as a pearl.

We are two stones
within one hand. One blind
pebble. And you sparking
bold faceted

you, named, unfolding
in what brilliant frills
in bright beholding

Not waiting, pearl unfurled
my day for birth--

Monday, March 14, 2016

How does the sky blue

Why does the sky blue, beyond its deep crawling clouds?
Blue, today, a sweet and sobbing trumpet song
Each note royal, brilliant, purpling
Into the next crisp reverberating tone.
Footbone, shinbone: feel the green hill roar
Its echo--blue and gold in its deep
Rocks, its secret bones, beneath its green--
Slow earth echo rings its rocks and pockets
Hums and thrills in ear, in fingerbones,
In ankle, clavicle, in old skull seams--
The hills ringing gold cannot still
Or hold this joy
Outswelling from Your bought, forgiven saints.

Made deep with grief released, with sweet true grief
That swelling sobbing thanks 
Presses their blood against their skin.
Is sung. Unsung, bursts out in fountains. 
Stains the sky:
Purple and crimson, dearly bought--
And flushing pink as cherished as a bride--
And blue! Deep, boundless blue
Spills up, and out. Blue spouts and shouts and flows--
Joy stains the wide sky with its overflow.
Eager, tender, urgent, bold
Presses every fold of space
And spangles stars in it.
Wondering, starkissed, lovestruck--heaven
Trembles. Rings with the glorious meek song.

And see! How beautiful Your chosen bride--
How radiant unveiled. Her loved face shines
And grateful tears--like gems, like stars--
Catch and reflect Your love in sparks of light--
Like stars that sing among the boundless night.

Saturday, March 12, 2016

geneva going to bed

Geneva going to bed
is a snail
(curious pause at every book or block)
ooching long inches
Leaves a peanut butter trail

Friday, March 11, 2016


At last, at least, I've arrived
at disgust. These arrogant detours
half listening to You in the
back seat. Driving down
Obstinate Street again
like self willed seventeen.
Finding myself: driving circles
around You around I. My
routes reroute through treason.
Meek here at last: Direct me.
I will not ask to
know the road. To grasp
any moment but this moment.
I'm throwing the gps out of the window.
I'm done with mapquest micromanaging
With en route panicking.
I'm handing over the keys. You
know the road, this
good road.
You drive us:
Let's go home.