Backspace

You can’t use the space bar when backspacing.

I’ve begun writing for an hour now.

Nothing to show but white space

after deleting thoughts.

Talk about white supremacy.

What if every thought

was sentenced to paper?

Every tree beaten to a pulp?

Fiction and non, single spaced,

no margins of error,

looking like an inkblot

for our subjective peruse?

Ah, words.

Libraries full of them,

bound like prisoners,

serving their sentences,

and hoping for parole.

May I have a word?

Backspace.

 

The Apostle John’s first sentence in his gospel…

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” John 1:1

Dance Floored

I remember the back wall

at junior high dances.

The cafeteria cleared of tables

and a disco ball suspended,

catching and pitching light

like baseballs.

 

Velcro didn’t exist then,

yet something held the boys to

one side of the room,

while the girls talked to

each other across the way.

The floor waited, triple waxed.

 

We didn’t have enough puberty

to make a collective advance.

But a handful of boys,

some with shadows under

their noses, trickled over

one by one, laying down

 

rail for the rest of us

and our pseudo hormones

to cross the great divide.

Some of us took a chance,

while others stood staring

afraid the currents would

 

pull them under along

with their blushing,

freckled, pimpled faces,

accentuated by the

myriad of little spotlights

spinning around the room.

 

To even touch in public,

although in the somewhat

dark, was like the sun

coming out from under a rock.

And then there was light

shining on our pubescent selves.

Sea Psalm

Take me down to the river,

where eternity flows.

My prayers dangle

over the edge,

and are carried

to the sea.

 

Why is the ocean vast?

Why does it bend the horizon?

Oh, little metaphor

of the universe,

lay your tides

over and over

like a meditation.

 

Oh, currents within,

correct my course,

couch my requests

and praises into

your endless soundings.

Dear God, I bow at Your river

to swim in Your ocean.

After You

I remember when poetry came so easy.

A shaft of light tapping my shoulder.

Creases laying lines on my face after a nap.

Another age spot showing up like a ring on a tree.

 

The Muse used to be after me.

 

Poetry would help me catch my breath.

Water pooled around my imagination,

Whetting appetites and desire.

Now I have to ask to be free.

 

The Muse used to be after me.

 

It’s easier now to write about poetry

Rather than unravel words to a poem.

You know, those wending subtle slants

Infusing linear thought like soil over seed.

 

The Muse used to be after me.

 

Well, I’m asking now for you to say

“Look at how the petals play.

They hold hands around the yellow pill.

A daisy is a daisy is a daisy still.”

 

Now I say to the Muse, “After you.”

 

Barn Swallows

They’ve been back a few weeks,

bringing joy to our open field.

Tap dancers on tufts of spring breezes,

short spurts of song attending.

 

Slipping in and out of our barn,

nests are sprigged, and detailed

for another generation of acrobats;

those aeronautical exemplars of sky.

 

Cats lean against the door.

I imagine cigarettes bobbing

out of their mouths, as they discuss

the exploits of the day.

 

Their disregard for field mice,

those punks, beads for eyes,

little pipsqueaks of manic form.

So cat cliché, so old school.

 

Then a Cheshire grin settles

under their whiskers as

they look up with angel eyes

of insidious intent.

 

Feline felons in wait.

Butts are tossed, while

crouching coils their springs.

Hopes of swallowing a swallow.

 

I’ve never seen cats jump so high.

Soundings

Caught in a crevasse,

In the lows between

Two rogues.

Who directs these,

And how am I here?

 

This ocean cannot be

Fathomed as the

Heavens cannot

Be crossed.

To whom do I belong?

 

The temptation is to jump.

Man overboard, Man

Over bored.

Whether Jesus lays asleep

In the hold,

 

Or walks on the water’s

Lips, arms out,

Out of the pseudo safety

Of a lifeboat.

Is there any question now?

Statements

The straightest point between

Two lines a short distance.

 

The scenic route is

Lined with roses.

 

All roads lead to

Roaming.

 

The unimpeded stream

Is speechless.

 

A waist is a terrible

Thing to mind.

 

Many proofs are

At the end of the day.

 

Love conquers all,

But often woos.

 

If I beg for mercy,

Grace is thrown in.

 

Thankfulness is one

Root of goodness.

 

A gift received,

A gift given…that’s life.

 

The fear of the Lord

Is the beginning of wisdom.

 

God Joined Me for a Drink

The trickle of unconsciousness

filled the tin cup.

I couldn’t handle the half empty

of hope and a future.

 

I drank and drank to quench

the mystery of the largess of God.

But God had salted the water

and assaulted my soul with an eternal thirst.

 

He held out his hand

and I set the dented tin

over the scar imbedded

in His lifeline.

 

He poured into my eyes,

right through and down

to the bottom of my arid heart.

This Tin-man echo of mine.

 

“Here, take, drink of this cup

In remembrance of Me.”

The chalice, cool in my grasp,

brimmed with blood red wine.

 

A sip of God consciousness.

 

“Do this in remembrance of me.” Jesus

 

Heavy Cream

In hot water,

into the grind,

the grounds

of black semantic

overture.

 

Simple strain,

drips, rip, tip

my conscience

awake,

then steal time

 

to brim the rim.

Steam lifting,

Cream diving,

touch bottom,

to rise as a dream,

 

spreading like an

early morning kiss

of fog, dulling the

pain, easing

the tension

 

between the dark

night

and singed

light.

A sip of silence.

White Ceramic Cup