Monthly Archives: April 2017

The Girl Who Came Before Thunder

The mad heart flies to the to heaven,

to the eternal and tender blue above,

to the dreaming sky that can soothe

it’s sores and scars and pinprick kisses.

The stars where the soft angels singing

in the quiet moments when dreams

crashed on shores sparkling in moonlight

and a girl who came before thunder held me.

In my dark room, sleepless, stockpiling wonder

as the time trickles like blood from tips of pens

and the invocations and memories they write,

to make a roughshod heaven of my disgrace.

And the stars weep ice and cherry blossoms,

as I call her back, the last hurrah for innocence,

to the empty place in my bed, and I call back that kiss,

that came too late to save me, but was only sweetness before death.

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The Refusal of The Stars to Call Down Angels

A fat, broken down old man I am,
out at this cold and godless hour
walking my snow white wolf-dog
because my home, my room,
had become torture, brokenness,
The Devil never quiet or letting me be.
A week, I’ve stopped craving cigarettes,
but still too much booze, in fact, I swig
from my hip flask, potent Russian Spirits,
and feel a deceptive warmth, rushed stillness,
a giddy dream from burning tomorrow,
burning the morning when I could be useful.
A young woman, maybe 19, short brown hair
and a milk pale face, blue eyes as deep and pure
as an ocean I saw once, with a young woman,
maybe 19, who loved me, took me beneath waves
and laid kisses and passion upon me, and I have
worshipped her memory evermore, evermore.
A young woman, she looks up at me, lights up,
ecstatic and running towards me, it’s the wolf-dog,
who is jumping in place and shaking her head, howling,
as the young woman crouches before her, shakes her fur,
and makes baby voices at her, and my wolf-hound
licks her face, nuzzles her face, is in love forever.
“Such a sweetie!” the young woman exclaims,
“Such silky fur! Such a good girl!”
And I watch them together, wishing love was so
easy for me to show, to give, to be carless with it
and throw it around like confetti on New Years Eve
or candies on Halloween, which past, and it is cold.
“Thank you!” I say, take a swig of Russian Spirits,
as the young woman stands up and offers her hands.
I take it and we shake, and her palm is soft and warm
and enveloping and has never known a days hard work,
and I am jealous and sad for her, and still feeling stirrings
of love and reverence, even though I am old and left behind.
The young woman blows my wolf-hound a kiss, smiles at me
and waves goodbye, and hurries back to her friends who are
boisterous and laughing and doubtlessly heading to mischief
and shenningans and things that will either shine in the stars
or burn their flesh and dreams forever after the morning.
I watch the young woman and her friends move on, gone.
My wolf-dog lays down, head on her paws, whimpering.
More Russian Spirits, more defeated prayers, more solace
in Winter Cold and refusal of the stars to call down angels
and my wolf-dog, like me, falls so easily, so perfectly,
for kindness and enthusiasam, and a touch giving kindly,
even though they hurry on to something better, something brighter.
There will be no sleep tonight. There will be no peace. Wolf-dog will be at my feet.

Release and Peace

It is over. It’ is done.

Release and peace have come.

Armor buried in consecrated ground.

Her heart, as a dove, flew to heaven.

Wide open fields where the sun shines forever.

She is a girl again, free, without burden.

The tree with gold light through it’s leaves,

the cold brook with refreshing water.

And she tends her sheep,

and she feels God near, and she is healed,

and she is whole and her country saved.

She can be with God and her angels now.

It is over. It is done

Weight of Life

She carries The weight of life in her belly,
the dream of flesh and the carriage of bones.
She touches her growing belly tenderly,
as if to touch the child inside.
 She is joyous and hopeful and a bit fearful.
The weight of life carries ecstatic burdens.
She says it will be a girl, and they’ve picked a name.
Her man will softly touch her, what they’ve made together.
 I offer prayers, and a ear to hear her catechism
of hope and waters deep and eternal and momentary.
From an internal sea to the days of love and dreams
that knows sweetness in passing, and loss in birth.

Kayla

I stand over her grave, the hole still open, the casket holding her

               Tiny and fierce body still there to see, gleaming and bright in

               A distant sun, as she sails across the black river to Elysium.

               A warm and sunny spring day, life beginning and returning,

               The winter past for another year, and Eden seems so close

               In the forests and by the little rivers, and in the hope for tomorrow.

               Across the world you went, to where the innocents were lost, slain

               And The Devil was so clearly winning, and you, as your Savior said to,

               Fought Those Legions, and pushed back against the dark.

               You were a Lamb, whereas I was not even a Goat, just lost in myself,

               Getting drunk every night, hitting on waitresses and strippers,

               Who put up with it for big tips, knowing a sucker when they saw one.

               I left the fight to you, while I disappeared into my own broken mind.

               And now you are gone, your tiny and fierce body laid to rest, your wild

               And loyal heart stilled, and the dream that was you gone to that other world,

               And I try to remember your voice, your face, the light in your brown eyes.

               I drink straight from a bottle of red wine, can’t go without as my heart breaks,

               And the tears come and shame watches over me, as you always saw so much more,

               So much more in me than I’ve ever been, ever even tried to be.

               And yet, I remember, remember all that I saw you do, a Lamb who comforted

               And fed and visited and stood by and fought for, even in a war torn land,

               For you did not love your life unto the death.

Though you lay in the ground, though you cross a sunless river, you got to eternal spring

               And never ending light, and the presence of love and warmth and peace without end,

               And we all know your name, and we all want to be Lambs like you.

               In my tears, drunkenness and brokenness, I pray that I could be twice like you.

               I pray it, as spring is here and life begins again, and maybe a lost spirit can too.

Cuts Like A Childhood Kiss

She stands, sad, as far away as heaven,

in her stylish black tank top and jean shorts.

Her long, thin arms are strong with nothing

but their own hands to hold, disobedient children.

Was there a demon or angel walking by,

whispering in her ear or blowing kisses?

Was there a ghost, of something traded

or cast aside, golden apples rotten in windfall?

Then she’s “ON”. The smile sweet from her

harsh face, that cuts like a childhood kiss.

Angel and demon made her, and her light

is the eclipse half-light, crimson and bitter.

Cameras steal a piece of a moment, make a

soul a quotation and shard in the eye of men,

and the lonely or just lustful, or those all three.

A piece of a soul, a moment, to embrace the world.

Then she’s “OFF”. The mermaids swim to the top of

her thoughts and bring the leviathan tagging along,

the waters between dreams and flesh and what comes after

all lined up and bleeding her thoughts, but only sadness shows.


Early Morning Warm

She wears the necklace I gave her.
The Tree of Life that will be hers.
The night before the wedding.
I may dream about mermaids tonight.

A bottle of red wine, the moonless sea.
She danced with me, early morning warm.
I’m waiting for the mermaids tonight.
To sing the song that told me her true name.

Drunk, the sea and stars spin a golden thread.
The Tree of Life is hers for sewing the sun.
I know good and evil, but not how to speak.
Mermaids sing, and I remember her touch.

Child Of The Sun


Bitter Tea Of The Days Of Youth

A soldier’s cap, maybe a SWAT cop, but on a slim

little elf of a Canadian Liberal, in Jackson Pollock

sweat shirt and ripped black jeans, de rigueur Converse

high tops.

She is the peaceful angel, tender prophet, wings all too

visible to my tired eyes as I dream of burning this world.

I cannot let go. I never knew how to forgive. Windfall rotten

and I cannot be like her, loving, embracing, A Child of Light!

She sits next to me at the airport bar, buys a club soda,

offers to buy a beer. She repeats back to me the words

in my notebook about the woman I loved, who was A

Shard of Eden, tells me they are so beautiful.

No touches. Angel cannot embrace humans. Touch in spirit

and dreams and minds and that place where we are all innocent.

She whispers in my ear, “You can make beautiful things. You can beat

that demon.” And then she pays the tab.

In red clay soil, in a place so thirsty for tears or kisses or blood,

something stirs up, an orchid at it’s mercurial best, made blue

and green, and it’s tea is bitter and warm, like days of youth.

I Can Make Her The Moon

A dream made a star and placed in a dark, empty sky

that has lost the treasures that it was born with.

A dream in Veronica’s face, and eyes I can make suns

on a world that grows green now, after the war.

Glad to see her, and steal some talk, words I can make

the moon, the sheered out sister keeping me stable,

as the massive black hole in the center of my heart,

ever tries to pull me to the place where there is no light.

I say goodnight, and keep her close, the sun lighting

the ashen forests returning from the war and it’s fires,

tender shoots and buds, that I hope will flower, and perfume

a world of gardens, a shard of Eden, maybe sealed with her kiss.