Monthly Archives: December 2017

Shadow Falls On Grace

The young woman looks back, beautiful but unsure,
in an ad from an old magazine, back of a curio shop.
Regal and fresh, but I can see something in those eyes,
a crack in the diadem, a tarnish on the world of gold.
A woman I love, whose feet I didn’t think touched earth,
who was beauty and artistic royalty, is nursing wounds,
gone to rehab, gone to sleep awhile. We all have poison.
Her diadem cracked. I now see the tarnish in her world of gold.
Some other era, an evocative moment sells perfume, pride.
Manicured and demurred, and still the shadow falls on grace.
The long ago model and the woman I love, and my lost soul,
all have poison, coming in through wounds, going out through fangs.
I go to the counter, buy the magazine, and a whizz-bang novel.
A teenage girl, smiling and friendly, takes my money, chats.
I make small talk, and know it’s another mask on what’s real.
Is there shadows in her eyes? Can’t say so on company time.
We all have poison, and we all know fear and loss and rage.
Diadems crack and there’s tarnish on the world’s of gold above.
I’ll buy some daisies for my love on visitation day tomorrow.
Maybe that model outran the shadow falling over her.

Fighting Chance

Israel, late summer, the sun going to the underworld,
the stars coming out, night sentries in service of their mother,
the moon.
She is walking barefoot on stones, my wife, whom I knew
too early, but now we are one, and we are holy again,
and she is with child.
A pool of water, not yet gone in the bright and hot sun,
I dip my hands into the pool, and I wash her feet,
and kiss her toes, and stoop myself to her.
I thin lift up her shirt to show her belly, where, just beginning,
our child is taking form, the new angel come to the world
we have made, to make it anew themselves as they grow.
I make the bars of the cross with this water, make the sign
of our Christ on her flesh, to protect her, to protect us,
to bless us as we fall towards heaven.
The sky is dark, and the stars whisper they’ll show the way.
We walk on sands and stone back to Jerusalem, hand in hand,
made new again, Adam and Eve given a fighting chance.

Dead of Night, Almost Christmas

Dead of night, almost Christmas,
when The Messiah was born.
Scripture said, the angels announced
to the shepherds: “Come and see!”
And here I am, out in the night,
with nowhere to go that’s safe,
drinking fast food iced tea,
in a parking light of an all night store.
The lurid lights, the phony cheer,
the talk of brotherhood that’s empty,
when the world’s burning and God
is invoked to put the weak upon the fire.
Tax collectors, prostitutes, lepers,
the sinful and fallen and left behind.
Those He touched, He healed, He sought out.
The ones like those here, are left to burn.
The say He was born in a stable, laid upon
the manger, a humble child, poor family.
On the run soon after, a stranger in the world.
A poor prophet, executed for his powerful words.
His children yell: “It’s Merry Christmas asshole!”
and lose their shit over coffee cups, petty ass shit.
So lost, so angry, and I almost turn away forever,
but I remember the love I feel, touching His face.
He came for me, for us broken, left behind.
Now, will He chase poison from powerful souls?

Trains Ran Right Past Her Backyard



Sumner sat in her tiny back yard, in the cold of December,
drinking hot coffee, looking up at the smattering of stars
that shone through the lights of the city.

An Amtrak train passed right past her backyard, shaking
the rickety wooden fences that separated everyone’s yards,
the horn howling out into the darkness like a wounded demon.

When she was little, Sumner imagined riding on one of the
trains that passed behind her house, heading to New York City
or Boston, somewhere far from her broken world.

She dreamed no longer of such things. No place offered freedom.
The Devil was everywhere. The Devil could not be escaped.
The Devil had conquered the world.

There was an itch in her brain this night, a thorn in her thoughts,
of the one who she thought loved her, who’d left her behind.
She fearfully, tenderly, touched her belly.

The trains couldn’t take her to a better world,
she could not escape her world, broken and growing dark.
The fight was here, in her house, with her family.

She went inside, down into her room, to the small closet,
In the dark she went on her knees to fight The Enemy,
to fight for the hope of the world, to find the love in The Light.


Winter Clear With Irene

Irene is older now, almost forty like me.

I still see the young woman in her face,


Charlotte II

Wedding Day

Awake in the night, watching sparse snow flakes fall,

wishing I could see the demon that is out there,

that can see me so clearly.

Hot, black coffee, because what is sleep? What are dreams?

Rebekah is in my mind, poetess, the impossible good thing.

Not her, not any other woman, will ever be at my side in these moments.

I lay down in my bed, knowing there is no hiding from the demon, he knows all.

My enemy is closer to me than any passing women ever was, knows me true.

The snow stops, the night goes on, and I dream of being innocent.

Of kissing Rebekah on our wedding day.

Just dream.


A Vibrating Star

She’s wearing a long sleeved white sweater,

black capri pants, and plain white tennies.

Mother is fussing over her, smoothing her hair,

telling her it will be alright, she doesn’t need  lucky pennies.

Her first date tonight, something like a normal kid,

something good in this world that’s taken so much.

She turns to me, the one found her that cold night,

when she was almost lost, beyond the sun’s touch.

Her eyes hopeful, but unsure, calling for reassurance.

I smile kiss her head, tell her it will be real swell time.

She smiles, all light from a vibrating star, her light

finally escaping a black hole, making dreams rhyme.

I take her picture, wanting to hold onto this moment,

hopeful and beautiful and sweet, after we almost lost her.

The demon did not win, we saved her in time, but he is patient.

I know that darkness falls again, can’t defeat, only defer.

The doorbell rings, and she squeals and is so ecstatic.

She found a boy who loves her, who will be her brave one.

Me and mother hug her, and then she runs to the door.

The boy is there, hugging her tight, consolation for what can’t be undone.



Ice cream blonde, hair bright, a silken halo falling down


over her American Flag bikini top.




She laughs and smiles like a child, writing her name in the dark


with the burning sparkler.




Even know, after it all, she laughs and smiles like a child, so free,


in this sweet moment.




Fourth of July and the sky explodes in color and fire and smoke,


and her halo shines back it’s light.




Independence Day, maybe we’ll be independent of the past,


of mistakes and the things that hurt us.




Declare we are one now, again, and the sweetness will come.


Maybe we’ll make love…




…….really make love, with tenderness and hope and softness,


and actually grow close in a touch.




The sparkler reaches it’s end, and she exclaims, asks for another,


to write her name in the dark again




where it will last and be eternal and kept and cherished by all.


Let this be Independence Day.


8th of December