Tag: Poetry

Ascension

There’s a throne
at the end
of the world,
placed at the
edge
of the
ledge
overlooking forever,
a keen-edged
broadsword
leans there
in royal repose
waiting to
sever
what looms behind,
those wounding ropes
that bind
and the lies
of what never was.
Only those that
dare to become
gods
have grasped
its hilt
while their selves
cried out,
“Wilt thou
cleave me asunder?”
And the thunder
crashed
as the blade sliced
and they became
as lightning,
exploding time,
infusing everything,
blissfully nothing,
just vague
memories
floating through
shadows,
drops of dew
on stained-glass
windows

A Trip Worth Making

A glorious place,
hand-painted
in the fabled green
of rolling Irish hillsides,
nothing but space
to roam,
to be alone
with the breeze
and tranquil thoughts
to carry furrowed brows
to crease-less ease.
A glorious place
indeed, walking free
with need
in absentia,
colorful flowers
smiling in sweet,
perfumed dementia,
all wrongs and hate
forgotten,
no hunger,
no down-trodden,
not a single thing
misbegotten.
Can such a place survive
anywhere but dreams?
It seems unlikely
while the insanity mill
mindlessly promotes
hate-filled beings.
But you can still go there,
follow the golden geese
and they will lead you,
inside yourself,
to that land called
Peace.

No Title Will Suffice . . .

He is
fading away
with all the
grace
that one could
hope to coax
from one
simple dog.
His days
of play
have flown
away
and the ghost
in his shell
wanders the spaces,
stumbling into
corners,
daring not
to turn
left or right,
his sight
having betrayed
him
and anyway
it feels
safe there
I suppose,
enclosed,
a cocoon
carved from
a large room.
What am I
to do?
He seems to
be through
though I imagine
I see a puppy
in his face,
me, in this
horrid place
of deciding
his fate –
or do I
wait, not knowing
what great pain
there may be
or what tragedy
may strike
like a thief
in the night?
Fourteen years
he has given
his all,
who am I
to forestall his
peaceful passage
and then again,
who am I
to say
he won’t last?
The end comes,
nowhere to run,
I must face
that day
with him,
I cannot
shun
this debt
of love,
even to the
breaking
of
my
heart

Distillate

God is
hope,
nothing more,
pile all the
scriptures
on the floor,
absorb them
’till your brain
is sore,
the gift
remains
the same
regardless
the name
you claim
is true.
What lifts
me and you
is hope.
Hope
that the
pain will
pass,
hope
that the
bad
won’t last,
hope
that a
“bigger”
has our
back when
lack
looms
large
and loss
attacks.
Hope,
Hope . . .

Hope

Course Correction

The
immensity
of the the thing,
a profound
responsibility,
so much so
there comes a
propensity
to let it go,
a reflexive response to the
intensity
of the fear.
What would happen
if you grabbed hold
to steer?
Once grasped
you would become
ineffably
responsible for it all;
where you are,
where you’re going,
to what you set your hand
and what you’d rather be doing.
The
immensity
of the
responsibility
of choice.
Easier to blame,
to leave things the same,
to not bear the weight
for the result of the game.
There’s always next year,
right?
Maybe . . .
or it could end tonight.
Isn’t it time
to grab that wondrous mind,
to be the one choosing
your life’s design?
I think,
perhaps,
just maybe,
it IS.

Encounter

I saw
all
the galaxies
swirling as dust
in an
elephant’s eye,
or perhaps he
spied
them in me,
my own
reflection
dazzling his
perception
for a
breathtakingly
brief
moment –
an aberration
no doubt
that passed
without
comment.
The elephants
know, of course,
but have agreed
not to speak
of such
things,
for there are
none that
believe
save the moon
and her owls,
the hawks,
and the most
ancient of trees

Thief

The vanity
of the moon
is unbecoming,
luster stolen
from the sun,
her porcelain glow
not her own,
libidinous trickery
made to look
chaste
that she may
bask in the
unabashed smolder
of young lovers
casting smitten
glances skyward
from sea kissed
beaches

Divine Mystery

Oh the
great
weight
of our sin,
poor thin souls
bent
under the rules
we broke,
rules from
long dead
white men
who swore they knew God
better than me
and you
and what we
should and shouldn’t
do
while they watched
the money
and walked
oh
so
piously
and thousands
of years
along
we crawl
and cry
for redemption
from the
dreadful end
sworn by those
old
white
men
in our
spare
hours
between
loud
protestations
toward
subjection
and
oppression