On Faith

Jagged ignorance peels and aged
curls of bark coil away from their
familiar anchor. From this soft green exposure, pale
to new light and disrobed by time’s guardian
it is now known that this same slivering, raw
armor fell away from you in parallel sheets, shed
in uncombed ribbons. You emerged then, cold and
conscious, armed only with the purest clarity -
not gripped by fists but instead, glowing
from each fully blossomed
palm. Nameless then was the intended
form; just as in those thundering
moments of His sacrifice, unsheathed
you stood: my first man
and last example.
That dew drop truth nourished just
one leaf which in dutiful turn
quenched its brothers. In this new season, as
yellow almonds shiver from their heights
and fuse with soil, so does this chilly awakening
breathe blustery truth through my limbs -
poised now to extend
upwards, rooted in
history and flourishing
on faith.

Have I Been Running?

Have I been running? Did I run? Were those clouds the dim denial
of sun? To what degree was that mirrored lake an exploration or great
escape? I knew well if I stayed I would never move, lodged in logic,
convinced and soothed, so
despite biting anxiety that has burned
away, I have learned a stillness, the resolve to stay. In reply to
that voice press on, press on I ask, where have my convictions gone?
Where is peace, if in my heart, to lay its head? And with
whom is she to share her bed? In outstretched arms before a gentle
nudge I want to run forever and never budge. Is this a race
with a ribboned end, or a journey over which I segment
and spread? There is an us that has never seen routine
and an unpeeled love ripe for time unseen. Will I house
life or will life house me, and through which will I shine for those
in need to see?

For G.

This pool is thick and the shadows long
from aching forms that once stood strong
In the unquenched sand, now churning dust
a face looks up, eyes wide, limbs crushed
High up, alone, in the hottest air
your mind trips up on every snare
What could be done and is not yet known
unveils slowly in a restless tone
A film of liquid, thick as clay
still mutes the sounds of what you say
Long hours ahead and pools darker still
may bruise your heart and bend your will
Yet deeper, beyond your secret scenes
you'll find a pulse beneath those seams
sewn in haste against the coldest nights;
It was here, you know
you first found sight.

You Will Not Be Alone

I'm going on a journey and
can't tell my return, but
the dangers won't
warrant
your painful concern
With sounds swirling slowly in
an inaudible tone
you will hear all these words
and you will not be alone:

Through worn, dirty
distance, to this
cavernous heart
I will see, feel and hear
you; new stories
will start

We'll come through the
miles
with our soles each worn
thin, and despite weary
limbs, beam mischievous
grins

We will touch weathered
fingers
palms wide, tip
to tip, and with my face
to yours, hold our unbreakable
grip

A warm simple
glance
and firm certain hug
will be braided in memory and
folded in time
creased and unpacked through
glasses of wine

Over tables and
pavement
in laughter we'll share
our unspoken stories, still
crisp
in the air
Tomorrow will come
and today is soon gone, but
your spirit, dear friend
is my unbroken
dawn

In the Air

In the air after
him a cologne stings and
brings memories of those who may
know quality but not
where it goes. I have already
known you. Lumbering blackness
in the bending hours of the
day seem to make the street's voices much
louder, shouting as if to say There
isn't much time! Discovering where I come
from while missing where I don't I yearn
less for a place and more for those who
know me best. I glance my
mistrust. That blink means let's not
discuss. That turn says you must
be gentle for entry to be
arranged. I could follow where
anxiety of the unknown beckons
and climb towards that crest of fret
in my chest, but instead smile
at my surroundings, close to
unpleasant prattle of those who should
mean well, feel the glow under the door of
my very smallest room. It is
already fine. It is only a dusting
of gloom.

Satori

To arrive
at a destination and still
be in awe after trials and
time; to know that the true
journey is greater; to see the place as
part of the story, but watch the story
live itself without need of a
scene; to scribble behind the script being
written, hear the hum of the silvery
soundtrack, be pressed by
prompts that direct me, blink at the marvelous
movement rising up and around
in the crisp new colors and shifting
forms of my experience: destinations
dot my inner horizon, but there has only
ever been one
moment, and it is
this one.

Abbraccio

There are hands clasping
mine that I cannot see and
an embrace, warm and
widespread
that unfolds when I
feel most free. There
are kisses in my
consciousness that breathe the
beauty of new days and
graze against this solitary
flesh with the promise of
what I choose not
to guess. The veneer
of old love, cracked
and fallen, only shelled this light
that proffered a calling. This
seduction, the deepest,
trembles gently in
stealth, with soft
anticipation
of only
itself.

Latitude

Maps and lives tear
at their seams and
we are all
rattled refugees
from somewhere. Can you
suspend
long enough to sit in
solitude
with the question, Where
do I belong?
There is a purpose beyond
possessions, and tasks
that surpass the trepidation
they churn. Raw
suffering can sooth
those sleeping sorrows
and nothing brings the texture
of life
to your fingertips like
pain. But gaze
in any light at those
you find courageous
and note their pace,
without pause.
Indulgence of the
self only skips the
step of care and
help. And need will be
breeding in mournful waves
until openness can tenderize
your heart.
Adjust your frequency. Receive
your message. Point
to those coordinates and you
will know
the boundless belonging
of home.

And Untrue

Riding this wave of awareness
without the provided
reigns, I will meet me, in time
and by then
I will have changed
forms again
be more like you and less like
them, a constant
morphing amalgam
colored subconsciously through time
and talk. Do you
live as if something significant depended
desperately
on your dreams? When your eyelids
enclose you in that courtyard of foreboding
and fear, step one step
after another
and meet me there.
We will embrace, pull
our purpose, with faith,
to waking. We will walk Peace
our new companion
to the edge of reason
where the trees
bend in question
marks and everything we are encouraged
to accept
becomes unglued; suddenly ghostly
and untrue.

Dear Soldier

A gentle tide beats
against the shore
of an inner landscape.
At times, swimming from
sleep, blinking through the
undercurrent, a restlessness
still swirls
in the early light
demanding difference.
There is no shame
in longing,
no weakness
in craving comfort.
It is the tide
that pulls away
from rocky shores,
destitute
and invulnerable
to erosion.
It is the darkness
in which hands open
breath holds
and between spirits
where fingers clasp.

A Holiday Comes

A holiday comes, walks
through. The days following
echo its noise in their hollow
hours. I wonder
when we blink
if it's at the pace of our
thoughts. I've stomped
through slush and tickled
my toes on the other side,
the one that's greener.
Anxiety burrows like hungry
worms, eager to populate.
It has been broadcasted through cells
breath and words
that growth and healing
step in time
simultaneous, until the next holiday
when the newest assessment
prints without pause
and change
breathes
through restless trees.

Following Logic

Following logic
like a terrible art
the lines never breathed
life from hue
The atmosphere, less
colorful concepts and persistent
passion became more
waxy molds
and wicks
unlit.
From its very bend
and knowing frame
even the desk
knew the lofty theme
of its heavy stacks.
A tendril of smoke loops
luxuriously, the only clue
to a present mind
like that hotel
at the city limits;
guestless
but still open.

She Cannot Be Hurt

She cannot be hurt
if she remains unknown
so she walks these streets
in stolen clothes.
They clung to you
as they molded your form
outlining a you
hollow and warm.
She knows the danger
of being well known
but worse, she could be
to herself soon shown.
No reflective glass or
rippled pool
will hide the fear
of one lost fool.
And so these streets
she walks with dread
spooled in borrowed
bleeding thread.