Seasonings

When summer yawns,

a day break wedges

my thoughts between

the sun’s direct light

and its slanting

toward winter’s solstice.

As time wraps and warps

around my puny

gut feelings, a

prayer wends its

way through the

waning season

toward the bending Light,

an amen rolls

on toward equinox.

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My Mole Went Missing

Actually the dermatologist took it.

He defaced my face,

plucked the mole hill,

and put a mountain of gauze and tape

over the three little stitches.

 

I googled Mt. Rushmore,

and there it was,

the size of a boulder,

that if tied around my ankles

would sink me to the bottom for sure.

 

If Abraham Lincoln could,

would he want Jack-hammer Jack

to remove the pronounced punctuation

from his righteous cheek?

We all take it for granite.

 

My mole went missing,

and I shall miss it indeed.

I pray for a scar of remembrance,

a Rembrandt, should I need to face it,

because I will never have that chiseled look.

Lifted

The clouds aren’t usually this quiet.

They’re trying to sneak by unnoticed.

No definition. Looking a little pale,

they scrape the tree-line like a hangover.

The cool night chained them to the low places

and now they slip away into the light of day.

With their dissipation I am thinned,

the heaviness of dark lifted,

shadows spilling as a remembrance.

Forgiveness as the dew,

mercy as the burning thereof,

and grace its antecedent.

Runaway Psalm

Oh God, how my heart beats me up.

Its own rod and staff comfort me not.

My face runs flat with self-control.

My figuring has no end.

My passions, frail, off balance

Lead me beside myself

Where no water is.

 

Then a mockingbird flew silently by,

And I heard a hummingbird remember the lyrics.

A cardinal blushed.

A raven was its own shadow.

The fog lifted my countenance

Enough to see the mystery of You.

The Thou of this I.

 

You suggested I lighten up

As the sun crested a weary scape.

Ah, the light by which I see

You.

 

Then we laughed.

Shelf Protection

The books are listing on the shelf.

Pock marks left, where authors, dead and alive,

moved over to my coffee table.

 

Then there are the bookmarks

tucked in many pages like floss

reminding me there’s something,

 

some thought waiting to get unstuck,

dredged up between ideas

old and new and from old.

 

“Can one, by thinking, add any height

to his stature?”

 

It’s time to shelve and disheveled,

Clear the queue.

Reset the open-faced bindings.

 

Mind the store,

store the minds,

and stand the titles at attention.

 

Once again, my books and poetry

protect me, slipping silently

back into place.

If Tears Were Race Horses

If I release tears like race horses

which one will fall into the lead?

 

The gate opens and they’re off!

Anger gets out at the jump,

with Dissappointment a nose back.

Loneliness makes a run for third,

edged out by Rejection.

Grief settles in between

Laughter and Loss,

While Joy brings up the rear.

The track of the tears

comes alive as dirt and dust

rise in and behind the pack.

They are neck in neck,

cheek to cheek

as the backstretch looms.

It’s any horse’s race but

Joy is on the move,

but not on the outside.

Joy is moving through

the thick of it, jockeying,

bumping bellies,

smelling sweat,

listening as the hoofs

displace earth while

muzzles move air.

The movement is hidden

within at first, but down

the wire Joy overcomes

by two lengths.

 

A Severe Mercy

Of all the seeds which fall,

Catch this one beneath the soil.

 

Beneath the soul

Where darkness blinds.

 

Where darkness binds

A willing confinement.

 

A willing refinement

Until the shell breaks open.

 

Until the shell breaks upon

To push up and down.

 

To push up around

The stem and the roots.

 

The stem and the truths

Of all the seeds which fall,

 

Even one.

 

Indented Doors

Comma’s in

The pedestrian way.

Pauses, like cells

In a monastery–

Call us to pray

Out of the fray.

 

Slip in

The perspective, stay.

Queues in which

To stand when

You can’t stand it.

A momentary huddle.

 

A set aside,

Alone, abide,

Piece of peace,

Space of quiet

Out of the riot.

Would that I try it.