Tag Archives: hope

Piano and Bass

Her head lays against the passenger window,

as the rain spatters a soft, irregular beat.

I drive us on, on a cold and grey afternoon,

March, but not yet spring, not yet warm again.

She is curled up as much as she can be,

in the bucket seat and the seatbelt,

maybe dreaming one of her good dreams,

instead of the bad ones that hound her.

On the radio is a gentle melody, piano and bass,

a bell like angels ring and god’s own heartbeat,

as we drive over the mountain and thick forest.

Maybe The Promised Land is just over that crest.

She told me this morning she might be pregnant.

She wasn’t sure, absolutely, but she was suspecting that.

It would be our first child. What world will be left for it?

The Promised Land never materializes in a dynamic world.

I drive us on as she sleeps. She sleeps so little. So worn.

Leaving that poison town behind. Those wicked people.

What is waiting for us, with no Promised Land coming to us?

What is waiting for our family, where free will is the Sword of Damocles?

To Hell

Long golden hair, pale from the sun and a minor vanity, tied up by a brown leather strip.

Dull grey tank top and khaki fatigues, old, worn and so faithful boots, holding on for her.

Deep and earthy brown eyes, that radiated sweetness, but had the marks of bitter loss.

We sat side by side on the edge of the wilds, deep in Texas, in the harshness of summer.

Helicopters chopped the air above us, like the devil beating his wife, loud barks of aggression.

Soon one would lift off with both of us inside, to Houston, where it’d all gone to hell this time.

She’d take picture, and I’d write words, to show the world what had happened in hell this time.

But the world always rolled on, like every assignment before, until hell finally claimed the world.

The city in the distance, Houston, where held had shown up a few days ago, was red and raw

out there on the horizon, a wound that hadn’t healed and was filled with infection, a broken flesh howl,

as the fires burned and everything seemed to slip farther and farther away from us saving ourselves.

She still wears the Joan of Arc medal I gave here when we were confirmed, a faith found in the corner of our eyes.

It’s time for us to go, we collect our bags of gear and walk onto the tarmac, to fly into the fire.

National Guard soldiers and first responders, other journalists here, trying to repair, trying to record.

We board our chopper and lift off into a sky blue and smoky and churning and heavy with threatened rain.

Her eyes are closed, her head slightly bowed, praying perhaps for strength, deliverance, and a chance at hope.

Angels Lighting Candles

We’ve made it to Colorado, up in The Rockies.

The Red of Autumn is turning brown into white.

Our car is out of gas, we huddle together on

the steps of an old stone church, out in nowhere,

beneath the sky full of stars, angels burning candles.

The wind is crisp, becoming harsh through the night.

We cling to each other in the alcove of the doorway.

We whisper the secret words the angels taught her.

We whisper the verses that promised that we’re loved.

Will one of the angels come down and kiss our heads?

Who will come in the morning? Friend or Enemy?

Can’t trust a Jesus Thorns to have made a tender heart.

But we’ve got nowhere lese to go and nowhere to hide.

We’ve got to make it to the sea, so we can see again the sun.

Will those angels send a friend? Do they believe we’ve bled enough?


Stained glass of the church;
Jesus turning water to wine.
You are angelic in cobalt hue
I know only that you are mine.

The evening is falling, a year gone.
We sit in the pew. I hold you near.
I want to ask you to marry me.
I’m not sure your answer my dear.

Cold in the sanctuary of the church.
What prayers do we know for lovers?
I love you, with all the light left in me.
I love with all my broken prayer covers.

In that dim, sumptuous blue we kiss.
Tenderness touches our sacred light.
I hear your whispers when you sleep.
I listen for their softness, awake at night.

Sound and Thunder

Caroline lays upon the couch, eyes closed,

the wall of warm noise in her headphones.

It’s night, and the stars and the city shines.

Alone, the music embraces, soothes, quiets her.

Overlapping guitars and that angel voice,

that mournful woman, haunted and holy.

A cocoon of sound and thunder, the words

half heard and wholly felt, taking her to the sky.

The night is warm, her heart is full of love,

and she dreams again, for the first time in so long.

That mournful woman, calling back something lost,

but maybe in calling it back, it can be made whole again.

Maybe Caroline can be whole again.

All The Boisterous Day

Ice crusted snow crunching underfoot, sickly yellow light of streetlamps.
The buildings are dark, the campus empty, all the boisterous day gone now.
My lungs ache as they are filled with cold air, condensed breaths signal the stars.
I want to be in her arms, cuddled up together in bed, safe behind the door, in the dark.
Trudging alone, no earbuds or music, just the quiet night so I can here The Devil coming.
The winter is his season, and the one I know so well, so comfortable burning in.
The quiet, when the worst voices come, relentless and bitter, with sharp faces.
A clink of a cloven hoof, a swish of a pointed tale, but I won’t hurry or show fear.
She is waiting in our apartment, with some soup and bread and unsweetened tea.
She will welcome me in. She loves me. We’ve both slain demons to make it this far.
The Devil will not win. Spring will be here soon.

Angel and the Ashes

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.

The Angel Who Came And Stayed With Me

It’s the middle of the night, awake in the dark,

               Staring out the window and the sleeping world.


               I heard the whisper of something, something good,

               Long ago, and I can’t seem to hear it now, in the dark.


               Exhausted, tears don’t come, and the fear strangles

               All the light, all the hope, all the better dreams to come.


               You reach out to me, pull me back into bed, kiss me,

               “There is love still. There is us still. There is light still.”


               I fall into your arms, listening to your heart, wild, free.

               Because you love me, because you are love, I go on.


               Holding onto hope and the cleansing tenderness,

               The dream that it can all be beautiful and light again.


               I dream your dream my love, I dream your dream.

               I dream of the angel who came, and stayed with me.

Pinpricks of Angels

She is lithe, with dishwater blonde hair, and a distant look in her eyes.

               A black and white beanie, and dark loose clothes, and the ghost of a smile.

               An ember of some past joy, some long ago dream come true, flickers alight

               And for a moment, her feet raise off the ground, and life feels sweet again.


               As she walks home, she stops, and looks up at the sky, rarely clear and clean.

               The city lights chases away the heavens, but a few pinpricks of the angels light

               Still get to her here, on this cold and bitter night, and they are sweet manna.

               Still light in this darkness, in this city, in this world it’s so easy to believe God forgot.


               In her little apartment, with the plants she nurtures, and the place she can hope

               Or cry or just simply be, try for the quiet as the traffic and shouts come through

               Thin walls,  she starts to make her evening meal, and somewhere in the darkness,

                A quasar beats the rhythm, a code from the distance: “It can still be well.”