Tag Archives: love

Grace

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

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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.

Truest Prayers

On our way to Rochester for the summer.
We camped along the cold, dark river.
She sits by the water, praying and muttering.

Spring is starting to green the cold and dead.
We made it through another winter by the sea.
Fire and warmth, human touch, truest prayers.

A priestess will bless us, sanctify our dreams.
Rochester, where the angels dwell in caves.
Our motorbike will make it there once more.

The cold, dark river is answering her curses.
Two more days ride to the ancient forests.
That we’ll make it together, prayer answered.

All that can be hoped for in these winters.

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.

Amen To Wild Days

The recording she sent me, of our old stories of private gods and our valorous children,
has the cold wind of roaring February blowing her straight brown hair and her soft and
gossamer voice.
She sits in the field, our once mighty and eternal kingdom that has faded now, just a field,
as we have grown up, and the tales just slip away forever, you cannot hold them close,
cannot remain that child, even if you never grow up.
My tattering and navy blue hoodie, the one I gave her when I left for the war, from
Weeki Wachee springs, our last childhood adventure, all of sixteen, all out of grace,
the summer when mermaids were taking us down.
She wears it, and her t-shirt of the painting of Diane the Huntress, and blue jeans and
black boots, steel toed for her job, as she sits with our leather bound book of tales,
our own private holy writ of gods now lost.
Her soft, dark eyes cast down, light brown hair blowing over her face, the wind the edge
of tears in her voice as it swirls it up and whips the gossamer like spider webs in the gale,
ripping apart to send to the ancient kingdoms.
I watch this, laying down in my bunk, on my aging smartphone, still good enough for us,
and the working she is sending, of the brave monarchs we once were, the gods who adored us,
and the children we made out of dreams and voices.
I am away at the war, and her, with her mental illness, stayed behind, and she sends her magic,
her voice, our dreams, to me to protect me and anoint me and keep me safe, from friend and enemy,
and The Red Dragons that eats up children’s hearts.
Reaching the end, she closes the book, closes her eyes, says sacred words I cannot hear or pronounce,
and then looks into her little camera as if to look me in the eye, and smiles, beautiful and sad,
then says there will be another child coming from as last night together, this one in the usual way.
She turns off the camera, I turn off the video, and sit in the dark, the stars in the barracks window,
the stars all secret gods and valorous children that has been lost but still light the night and the dark,
and ours watch over us even know, in the war that will be The Red Dragon’s finally victory.
Amen to mad days, and the ones left behind. Amen to brave tales, and our loss that makes us sweet.
Amen to her, and what might yet be.

Pretty Beach Towel, Yellow Flowers

Her blonde hair, light and yellow, is starting to show it’s dark roots.

Like the smile on her face, her laughter, are starting to not be able

to cover up the sadness and bitterness under her skin.

A pretty and bright, red and white, candy striped bikini, starting to

show it’s wear and age. She’s had it for three summers. It’s starting

to fit a little too snug. We’ve both put on weight.

The bright, lush greens of the poplar’s around the gouged out pit

that is the old quarry, that is now filled with cold and dark and

ancient waters, does nothing to soothe the hurt of looking at it.

She puts a yellow and white beach, with pretty flowers, down on

the pseudo beach, where the land slides into that dark water. Signs

warn us not to swim here. We’ve never paid them any mind.

We swim out into those dark, ancient waters. We shiver and we dive

and we swim, and we get playful and splash each other, and I chase

after here, as if I was a sea monster, clinch my arms around her, as she laughs.

The day is hot and the sun is hard, beating down on any bare skin above the water.

Under her eyes is starting to form flush, red, raw strips, despite the sunblock.

We float on our backs, holding hands, looking up at the loving and harsh god of ours.

Later, we walk back to my truck, bare foot on soft grass and hard stones, up the path

from the primordial pit and waters, from the forest were the demons bide their time

while the god the sun is watching, from the place we are free of the weight.

She laces her fingers through mine, and I squeeze her hand tightly. It’s late afternoon.

The road back to town is busy, a state highway, and some worn our classic rock is on the radio.

We don’t say anything. She smokes a cigarette out the open window. Tomorrow, we’re back to the world.

The Thorns They Must Share

Out in the California desert, they hid.

The man. The woman. The lonely kid.

An old abandoned mansion. Old grace.

Came to rest, to escape, in this old place.

A nymph living in the dried up river bed.

In the kid’s ear at night, cold, sweet said

“The end comes a thief, comes unspoken.

The desert is just a sigh in a laugh broken.”

The man, the woman, not Adam, or Eve,

children of men, unquenchable fire believe,

trying to rebuild Eden in hard, cracked soil.

But this world of men, of hope, always spoil.

The owl, predator and abductor, in cold suns

calls down the mice for the devils it never outruns.

“We horde the seed and the blossom, second life.

We take your children and changelings fill your wife.”

The man, the woman, are not free in the dry plains.

There are not coming fires or angry, cleansing rains.

The saucers, the angels, demons and God we’re there.

The poison was in the hope, in the clean, harsh air.

The wolf, the child of Satan, scorns stray dog, bare teeth,

The stray runs into the night, the wolf’s domain, to grief.

“Hey young one.” The strays says. “God’s children burn now.

But there’s a pinprick of sweetness when you make the vow.”

The lonely kid looks to the city. Hides a magazine with a girl so pretty.

The wolf chases the stray around the sky, and us, whom angels pity.

The girl has long dark locks, soft eyes, and her body is pale and bare.

The angel sees the rocks soil where love blooms, what thorns it must share.

Cherry Blossoms

The morning sky is as soft, tender and pink

as the cherry blossoms beginning to bloom,

the first of spring.

Riding on her new bike. A simple, pretty dress.

Will he see her? Will she smile for him, passing?

Will it be love?

She stops on the boardwalk, looks to the waves.

The beach is so quiet, so sacred, in the first light.

The war is over. The war is over.

She is free.

Whispers

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.

8th of December