Sunday, March 25, 2012

Goodbye, lullaby

Goodbye baby,
gone to grace
out of my body.
Save a place
beside you
till i come.
Though i be waiting
long and long
till i come home, dear,
i will come.

Whatever years
are set to pass
may you and i
grow in grace,
grow in love
for Him we love.
You were a gift,
a pearl, a rose.
I do not own
nor would i wish, dear,
to steal your love.

Your body,
your small heart,
were never mine.
But i am yours:
i was your mother,
for a time.
Little rosebud,
you were housed, dear,
in my skin:

I was your bread,
i was your wine.
You breathed my breath.
Your life in mine
was a rich gift.
And at the end
my blood washed your flesh.

i own no part in
your small heart.
i carried you
for a few days--
carry you still, but
it is not your face
i shall best love
when I come home.
But i shall love you, dear,
when i do come.

Little gift, little pearl
you were not mine.
But i was, dear,
your mother,
for a time.


Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Monday, September 26, 2011

On a bright day

i have been
callus worn, and callus
wrapped. i have worn
calluses
around me,

and seedlike,
dreamless,
slept.

Oh wind, oh breath--

oh quick thrill in
every spiracle--
invaded, i am giddy.

Terrified.

i knew you in the trembling
in my roots--

You  In  This  World  Are  Sweet:

 Let me, windwhipped
(Today is bright) -- i pray
windwhipped and damp
believe

and through leaves
pierced and
tender, breathe

Sunday, April 24, 2011

I said Come in

I said Come in, death,
be my friend.
She walks in
like violets,
wearing her spangled
oblivion.

Says Call me not
death. Hangs
that perfumed cloak
over the chairback.

Unwrapped she is
a full figure of dying,
promisedark.
Call me
now, she says,
i will be
now to you
forever,

love.

I wanted an end,
a friend, not
this--  Her eyes are
dark gates
opening

Silly little good morning

Wake up to steady hissing
gray sky emitting
interference,  solid static
transmission

downstairs bacon spitting
and knucklepopping in
the pan, a rainsound
sizzle,

broadcasts its breakfast smell.
Breathe a harsh black "good
morning" message the
coffeepot

transmits, in
drip
drip
drizzle

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Poetry Is Probably Not An Appropriate Vehicle

o holy
love, each to each
dark gateless sea, you reach
yourself, massless, complete
divine -

oh sing
small soul, an old old
song, wordfull with ancient
gold. Sing ineffable,
sublime -

trinity
hangs starbright
a countless thousand light
across my midnight
mind