Monthly Archives: March 2018

Petulant Achilles

I sigh, putting away my ragged paperback of the Iliad.

There is a black winged moth, resting upon a lily pad.

The calming pool in the courtyard, blooming water lilies.

Eerie beauty in those white flowers, not petulant Achilles.

I think of Felicity, and how she’ll come sit with me, in an hour.

I am flowering ivy in the spring, and she is my white lattice bower.

A fluffy and fuzzy bumble bee crawls into a flower, legs all dusty yellow

Nectar is sweet, and intoxicating, brings blooms, fruit, orange tangelo.

The choir I hear through an open door, sing a piece set to a Psalm.

Comfort in touching God, music, prayer, sweetness of Felicity’s lip balm.

How do we sing of The Lord in a strange land; Earth is all, to us, Strange.

The Spirit, and agape, we make a place here, a tabernacle we momentarily arrange.

For an hour after classes, Felicity and I will hold hands, talk, gently kiss, giggle, blush.

First of spring, Easter here soon, He rises. I hear Him in her voice, and sing thrush.

Sometimes we are silent, and the wind is cool, and the bright, and we are content.

In these quiet, pure moments we are more than flesh, the veil between heaven rent.

Halos Recovering

Rosalie has a buzzcut, and wears a plain grey tank top,

dull, black bunts stuffed in scuffed and worn boots

freshly polished.

Lawson Mcghee Library on a Friday morning,

Good Friday, the early spring light through the

windows, like halos recovering from the night before.

I watch her at the check out desk, a stack of books,

Saint Joan, Lore of Angels, a book about a lonely girl,

that one a picture book.

She seems tired, slight scent of dried sweat on her,

and the grime of another battle on her brow,

but she’s kind to the librarian, if distant.

The early spring light is gaining strength, shaking off

the hangover and wooziness of what it dead, and is

soft and warm, before in it’s rage it rains fire upon us.

Rosalie sees me watching her. A little smile, A quick salute.

I smile nervously, look down, and she turns away, walks to the door.

I raise my eyes to watch her go.

Knowledge and lies, holy writ and deceiving tales, all here,

as the human heart beats in what it speaks, what it remembers.

The words our kind calling out, pulling close, whispering in our eyes.

Rosalie stands on the sidewalk, just past the doors, looking up

and down the street. I could follow after her, ask if I could join her,

be paladin and fight the demons always so near, so cruel, so patient.

My heart races, as she lingers still longer.

Guiding Glow

Emma rides in the back of the school bus, school trip to Nashville.

High school is the same, but even worse. It’s snowing, though March.

Her head rests against the cool glass, the snowflakes caught in passing

streetlamps and store fronts, leaving school at 6 AM, before the sun.

Her headphones play something lush and enveloping, a warm aural hug.

The others are either sleeping or laughing and talking, fitting like rivets.

She looks at the snow, which won’t be much, but offers a dream right now.

She wants to be a part of what’s going on. She’s afraid of losing herself, too.

Three hours on the highway, and her MP3 player won’t last that long.

There’s a book in her knapsack, about a darker world, more like home.

The clouds hide the stars, and the moon, which is her guiding glow in the dark.

There’ll all having fun, and it looks so inviting, but they’d wipe away her face.

Sickly Sweet Coffee

Skylar sits on the seawall, looking out the harbor,

at the sun slipping away the white lights of the city shining.

She drinks overpriced and sickly sweet coffee, and hopes

that all this longing will slip away, like the sun.

Dad didn’t want her, only her older sister was adored.

Skylar wonders, can she take a star down from that distant sky

and make it crown upon her head, holy and sacred light

to dazzle Dad, so she can be adored too, catch his eye.

Dad thought he ruled this city, thinks now he is king.

And the hot and sweet coffee stings her tongue, like the

days when he wasn’t there. Even a monster’s daughter

wants daddy to be proud of her.

There’s a party with her rich friends tonight, she might go.

The opulent places in the towers that mock the sky and sun.

Maybe we’ll be struck down, our words confused, for the hubris.

The coffee now gone, she walks back to her apartment, unsure, aching.


It’s a rainy night in March, the air still,

and the glittering stars reveal the will,

of our mad and brave hearts to reign

above the broken city and it’s disdain.

A trendy little place in a downtown LA,

and holding hands is how we can pray.

The neon of the front window, a moon

of lurid colors, a guide to a sacred boon.

On the sidewalk we dance, I spin around

holding your hand, earth and sun wound.

We do the steps, and lose stars in the eyes.

After all that’s been, life can still be a surprise.

Theirs no music, we just dance, a spring night.

The stars don’t show the way, but are so bright.

Hands on your waist, yours around my neck.

The place is closing, 2 AM, time to pay the check.

And we sit hand in hand, the Uber on it’s way,

and in heaven, this night remains, we will sway,

again in the March nights that never go so sour,

we will dance, children welcomed in His Power.

As we’re driven back home, holding you so near.

There’s nothing but love in my mind, no more fear.

I kiss your head, and the lights trail and stretch out.

This love, touching His Grace, is what it’s always about

Cold Saturday

The tall southern girl, with her soft, slow drawl,

is the last dream here, the last, truest siren call.

Her long chestnut hair falls down, her sweet face.

I love her, and her voice, sound of my birth place.

I remember the woods and the little streams,

owl calls, and slinking beasts, cold fey dreams.

Those sacred and secret places, cool and dark.

Even felt something watching, in the city park.

But I was a different child than the others there.

I knew of my fears and hopes they did not care.

I found God in quiet and in giving of limitless grace.

Their God was warlike, and had a blood stained face.

This tall southern girl, with that sweet sounding voice.

In the ache of a lost place, love and desire so rejoice.

See her here on Friday Night, in a loud and lurid dive.

She is the still heart of the throbbing, buzzing beehive.

Later, after I’m home, my heart still with it’s sighing ache,

I lay in the dark, without rest, my mind with dreams awake,

I get up and sketch out that tall southern girl, as an angel of the sun.

Bright halo shining warmth and love on holy, lost, on everyone.

A Glass Darkly

A tall and proud southern girl with long chestnut hair.

A sadness in her heart melting smile, she can’t not care.

And those blue eyes bright, yet a darkness, coming storm.

That soft drawl, that lilting voice, keeps my hopes warm.

After her shift, we get on my motorbike, head to the hills.

We carry our sorrows there, and our mismatched, clashing wills.

She holds tight through the dark cut only by the single headlight.

The spirits are coming in the falling mist, and their rage will bite.

The cabin nestled in the grove of Oaks, we come to it at 1 AM.

We lay on the bed, and the distance is close, but the hopes slim.

She whispers from Solomon’s Song in my ear, a soft, lilting drawl.

I love her voice, like the girls I grew up with, before my graceless fall.

We make love, in the cool dark, in the restless forest, in the raging quiet.

Her sighs are high and whispered, and the welcome of her touch won’t deny it.

I kiss her with hunger as the end comes, and the owl calls as we collapse.

The eyes of Satan and Aliens on us, in our private moments, they do not lapse.

In the cold we wake, still a tangle of flesh and limbs, and now we shiver.

Naked, I start a fire in the wood stove, hoping her God is indeed a forgiver.

The dim orange light of the flames cast a demon’s shadow play on the living room.

I crawl back under the covers and into her arms, a sanctuary in this bitter gloom.

She strokes my hair, makes curls through her fingers, trying to remake me.

Sometimes angels can’t reconcile in heaven, sometimes one is still an enemy.

She whispers to me, that it might be a new beginning in this lonely place

We see now through a glass darkly, but soon we will see each other face to face.”

The Bright Unicorn

The young woman softly treads over damp, soft earth.
The holy stars shine through the branches of the trees.
In a thin coat for a local college, her favorite soccer team.
Burgundy and dark wine red, logo of a people lost, memory.
Her old sneakers let in the water, as if earth was washing her feet.
Her jeans to thin against the dark and the cool, the sighing morning.
She hugs herself tight, thinks of her friend Engalina, on that team.
She is graduating in the spring, and she’ll be on her way, as she is whole.
By a wide and silver river the young woman sits, to see the bright unicorn.
Is it the whisper of madness, or the need of something pure, or is it really real?
Beneath the holy stars, in the cold late winter air, the unicorn bright, gently white,
comes out of the forest, and looks her in the eye, whinnies, drinks from the river.
Once, when she as a girl, playing her own little game at recess, by the chain link fence,
she looked into the forest, on that glorious April day, when the world warmed up again,
and she saw the bright unicorn there, like in the stories she read, the dreams in her head.
She smiled at the unicorn, and it lowered it’s head to her, as if she were a queen of nature.
The bright unicorn drinks it’s water, and the drug of the light soothes the young woman.
The radiation of fear and curdled hate slip away, and she has a feel of that lost magic,
of the innocence and infatuation she wasted on black death and trying to burn the world.
The bright unicorn loves her, and they’re connected by the holy stars, and what she could still be.
The young woman sits by the river and the bright unicorn bows it’s head, turns into the forest.
Silent tears roll down her cheeks, and the holy stars seems as if they will come into her heart.
Engalina will be gone by June, and again a friend will say goodbye, and another star withheld.
One day, the young woman hopes, she will be something more, a holy star herself, finally healed.

Serpent Venom

The serpent threaded himself through the branches

of The Tree of The Knowledge of Good and Evil,

watching Adam and Eve play and be innocent and in love.

The serpent felt the emptiness in his heart, the blackness there,

and how beautiful Adam and Eve were, without care or shame,

and the blackness gnawed at him, how their beauty made him ugly.

And he knew just what he needed to do. He knew he’d bring them down.

He who slide along the ground, and was hounded by the light of God’s sun,

knew he’d bite the flesh of Adam and Eve, and put the poison in them he couldn’t escape/

Eve walked in the garden, the sun soft on her face, the wind warm on her skin.

Eve filled with love and full with God just right there, everywhere, in everything.

Eve could not have defended herself from the serpent’s darkness, having never known it.

The serpent called to her, in the softest and velvety hiss, called her to the Forbidden Tree.

He told her she and Adam could be like God, be wise and eternal, be more than this.

She resisted, but that’s part of the game, but the serpent and the darkness will wear you down.

And Eve ate of the fruit, and Adam ate too, and then they saw they were naked, and ashamed.

God became very far away, up in the sky and up in the sun, no longer just inside their hearts.

God found them, and condemned them to toil and pain, and the serpent had spread his darkness.

And the serpent sunned himself on a rock, damned but warm in his hate and satisfied resentment.

The poison had taken and they were now hurting and empty like him, hurting in the world of light.

The serpent watched as the cracks began to crow, and hissed as he saw they sometimes filled in.

Adam and Eve sat in their skins, protection given by slaughtered animals, the taking of life.

The sun was still brilliant and angry and red, but it’s wrath made the sky beautiful to them,

as if fell away again, end of day, and the night came to them, that now they knew so very well.

Adam held eve close, and Eve sang a half-remembered song from The Garden, from the wind.

The pain pricked their skins, but skin could still be soothed by an embrace, tears tenderly wiped away.

The Wrath of God still left warmth in the sun and lurid shades of his voice in the sky, as the night fell.

Clear Winter Day

Clear and cold that day.

The sun so high in the sky.

They were so full of love.

But it was his day to die.

She held his broken skull.

She tried to will him to live.

Men have the power to take

what God chose to tenderly give.

The open car racing away.

Fat tears and shattered soul.

He was the other angel for her.

Assassins can’t know what they stole.

She prays and begs God for mercy.

The world snapped open and broken.

Surgery for hours couldn’t save him.

Her prayers for strength softly spoken.

Clear and cold the day of his burial.

She kissed the casket. Tenderly, to send him home.

Holding her children’s hands in the winter sun,

God watching, still bright, in the endless, azure dome.