When poetry slants,
And phrases dribble down,
My parched lips part,
And life trickles in
Where nothing else passes.
A Psalm, a song,
An edge-wise word
Tipped over
Into my soul.
Throw Me a Line
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Mother Mary. A Mother’s Day Reflection
Mother’s Day…
She pondered these things in her heart.
Mothers do that quite often.
She kept all these things.
My mother did too.
An angel told Mary.
The power of the Highest will.
An overshadowing of foreshadows.
“For with God nothing will be impossible.”
All mothers are infused with possibilities.
They lay down their self dreams
and rest folded hands upon
their distended bellies.
Mary carried wonder
full term and delivered hope.
There was blood and water and child.
All mothers hold pasty skin to chest with awe.
My mother held each of us close for a moment.
A snip of the umbilical and the separation
began a journey of contemplation.
What will? What if? Life.
Mary’s path was set.
From empty womb to empty tomb
the realities of motherhood were multiplied.
The gestation in her heart left stretch marks of spirit.
Near the end Mary drank of the cup no mother…
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Rain Mates
Let’s just skip the stones
and get dirty.
Mud pies in the face.
Bear disgrace.
Fall into place.
Wallow and weep
into each other’s eyes.
The river’s a half-peck
away from your cheek.
We’re weak,
let’s cinder sneak.
We know who we are
from where we were,
and now is now.
The Oh, Honestly
parts of us wait
in the rain,
the ripples
kissing each other
with grace.
Besides the Point
The light fell down,
bruised its knee
preying in the shadows,
tilling the ages spots
on my brow and forearm.
Today, while it still is,
I will walk in the fallen light;
that flipped switch of night.
It dawned on me
that light by which I see,
is the point after all.
Saving Place
Like a book mark,
a fallen tree.
I heard the echo threreof
and fell too,
marking the place in which
I left off
like so many other pages
cleft in the forest.
Tell me again
why these memories gather moss,
bear termite bits,
and sit like cairns in conversations.
Let me know
How to live
after I rise above the imprint
and gather its shadow
like a jacket.
How do I lumber along this path?
Seeing forward, glancing back,
giving ground behind and before,
I set my face like flint,
grateful for shafts of light
and the affect thereof.
Another fall into grace.
No Passing Zone
I’ll pass on the passion,
stay in the lane,
between lines,
and read road signs.
Droning on,
highway hypnosis,
staring the horizon down.
Poor eyes on.
Even the rumble strips
me of desire,
might I retire
with treads worn thin.
Jesus take the wheel…
I’m not kidding.
Let’s go for a joy ride.
Proprioception
If my heart is in the right place
its ligaments aren’t overextended.
I find myself right where I should be…
in the middle of otherness,
the Thou super-suspended
yet at the end range of this core.
Nearer to Thee oh God
is the lost and found of me.
Mourning Joe
I poured clouds in my coffee,
Not to shade the cream,
But to brighten the cocoa.
The bitter bite of sips
edges shaved with cream,
Sweet swill of caffeine.
“Hey Joe, what you going to do
With that mug in your hand?”
“Just one shot of dairy.”
“That’s not the half-n-half of it.”
Ambiguous Intention
I was going to be grateful,
I really was.
I breathed into a new day,
And got distracted
By the bacon and its applause,
By the smell wending to my
Nose while the eggs cuddled
In its campfire grease.
Then I looked away
At the bird perched across
The field under the strands
Of pinkish, blueish, grayish
Morning light,
And I wondered how the grackle
Got so lucky to sit and be.
I got jealous of its ability
To defy gravity,
While I drank a bit of coffee.
Gratitude will just have to wait,
While I sit with my feet
Over the register under my desk–
The furnace kicked on…
I’ll be thankful later.
Toilet Paper. Three Sheets to the Wind.
Skimming through some old posts this one caught my eye. I was on a roll.
Toilet paper. That was the first thought that rolled across my mind this morning. Then I tore off the sheet and got out of bed. Toilet paper? Would it be over the top to write about it? It was stuck in the wrinkles of my brain last night. Frank McCourt in his memoir Angela’s Ashes told the story of going back to his father’s Ireland. He had to go the 2nd number and that required him to use his grandpa’s outhouse. Nailed to the wall of the room-with-no-view was newsprint. His father had to instruct him.
I am a father too. I had to instruct too, butt but not like my post-depression-era father—he used three sheets only, (single-ply, double-ply, or triple) only three. Sorry to put that image out there. Exit this post now and wipe it off. Geez.
What I really want to focus on is the empty…
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