Tag Archives: agape and eros

Mountains Rise From The Plains

He anoints her womb, the belly skin,

with holy water unblessed.

He anoints her, blesses her,

not with authority, only his love.

He anoints her, maybe a mother

to be, maybe staying in South Knoxville.

The river, dirty and dark, under the bridge.

The clean water comes from the rain.

She takes his hand, his hand still wet from

the anointing, choosing her as queen.

Touching is a prayer of trust, and angels

fear it the most when they whisper prophecies.

Henley Street becomes Chapman Highway,

or it can go into the interstate, mountains or plains.

Plains where she came from, outside Lincoln,

the wind blowing the seed into her womb.

The mountains where he called down angels,

angels for prophecies, or what the light stole.

The clear pools of water, her anointing, her pride,

and his heretical grace; maybe she’s a mother to be.

The mountains rise above the plains, but we cannot

raise above soft mad skin, grace a whisper on a sunbeam.

She tells him on the plains the Angel of Death left his hand,

and asked for the hand of a simple prairie queen.

He tells her, the witches are clean in the hills, and prophecy

is to guide the light into your heart, not what is yet to come.

The clear water in the pools from the rain, anointing her womb,

and what may come yet, a vision of hope and a gamble.

He kisses her softly, and she runs her fingers through his hair.

Evening colors, she anointed as queen, maybe a mother to be.

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Ever Tender Light

She walks in the blue shimmering light of the aquarium.

Muted and soft, wavering over her, softening dark eyes.

Dance of shadow on jacket slits for her lost angel wings.

We watch the mermaid show among enraptured children.

Bright tails and otherworldly smiles and crowns of gold hair.

The children can touch the world beyond the water; Heaven.

We feed the rays, and she remembers her first emanation,

when God took her by the hand to show her all of His creation.

She remembers how she’d spent a sweet eternity lost at sea.

We sit watching various creatures swim and look curiously

into the blue, vibrant and hushed blue, like His ever tender light.

She takes my hand in hers, whisper those words that answer birth.

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.

Black To Velvet To Grey

She’s on the waves, crystal blue, as the sun
awakens behind her, black to velvet to red.
Every morning, before the world begins again,
she’s here on the waves. She says she touches God.

She’s been through hell. She’s spat in the Devil’s eye.
She’s seen the darkness. She’s also held an angel’s hand.
Out on the waves, as the world is still asleep and quiet,
she rides the waves. The peace before the world.

And the world is burning. And I feel a war is coming.
And I let it all get to me. The dark smothers the stars.
Can I be like her? Spit in The Devil’s eye? Hold an angel’s hand?
Because she can still touch God, despite all her pain.

The sky is a crystal blue, like the waves, as she comes ashore.
She smiles at me. We both got to face the world know,
but she has a light I disregard, in hate and in anger.
Maybe I as write these words for her, I can touch God, too.

 

 

Deep In Light

She stands at the window in red briefs and a black tank top,
lost in a revirie of city grim and golden morning light, deep in light.

A shadow, a breath, from an unknowable place reveals outlines of
her silver, gossamer angel’s wings. Reveals her divine spirit and light.

That smooth mess of long brown hair catches the last stars
and they’re fading light halo her head, pronouncing her the skies queen.

Passion and lust and simple love crash through me, still half dreaming in bed.
The stars and dirt that make me can shape these disturbed things into paradise.

The train horn wails like a weeping ghost or a banshee fortelling death to come.
Morning is here and the starlight idyll must end for the real world we can’t leave.

I get up, my feet cold on the hardwood floor, pimple flesh crawling up my arms and legs.
I get up and wrap my arms around her middle, kiss the nape of her neck, inhale her scent.

Wishing I could pull her back to bed and we could make love in this perfect morning,
in this cold apartment in this crumbling city, in this absurd and sweetened life.

She pulls away, kisses my cheek, and strips to get into the shower and start the day.
I strip too and join her, carefully, reverently washing her shoulder blades,

for they hide her wings, her magic, her lighter than sunlight magic that pulls us up
to someplace better than the world that shames and breaks us and drains us without end.

Pale flesh reddened by the hot water, her eyes closed in gentle reverie, remembering
what the sunlight showed her, and what glories come in a shared morning,

when you can still love, still walk deep into light, and know what’s born in skin
can still touch the stars and leave these chains of corrupted carnality behind.