woman song

a composition without effort
flowed from full red lips
rising above the drum brush
high-hat, downbeat and strings,
soft reeds combine, and her deep wide eyes close
as her curled black hair slides
across bare brown skin, shoulders
that have carried so much for so long
and her delicate back shimmies
to the movement she has made.
I revive moments of joy and sadness
in the pauses of her soft inhales

the corridor showed signs of wear
and the incomplete blessing of skills,
repairs that smoothed away a slow torture of time
The old carpet seemed new
in the wet residue of a woman's effort
rub, clean shampoo, rub clean
and the sinews of her neck express
the giving from her inner form, she pants
low and slow; unbends the back
stiff and tired, her spirit reports, a call
from every aching part...smiling
as the guests pass by so carefree so
un-seeing, as she moans soft...bends again

In the corner room, laughter brings
signs of spring and hints of gathers
before sweet rain; transforms the sultry
heat of late August amid stirrings
 an ancient city in celebration
for the crisis points of an infant nation
all flow, across balcony doors. A window
on a world in flux.
From the deep smile beneath
her deeper furrowed brow the weight
that slips past her sensitive lips
and rises to the walls and floats down the hall
and begins again when skin denied for so long
rediscovers the genesis of woman song.

The sweetness of life, rustled on sheets
the needs of the moment past flowed to the blossom
of a wish...now filled, and another
and she is like the gentle breeze through linens,
she bends like tips of trees. gently 
whispers grow to rush and hush,
in counterpoint to her breathy rhythm
as love holds her close, in the velveteen air.

the winter of small men

winter urges the world
to rest and gather, precious water
and the spirit feeds its need to soak-in
the blessings of seasons past and rest
that eases tomorrow's burden

The spring that rests like a seed
in the spirit's ever fertile soil
sown in the want for more and more life
it is the path to happiness in the reach
for the healing warmth of the sun
and abundance.

So unlike the winter of small men
spare and ungiving, lost in  a fruitless
search for a greater emptiness- the seeming strength
to ignore the suffering of others, and find
an abundance for the few...
so unlike the world, as it cradles all
so unlike the gifts the world has given
to each of you.

Trains...

Footsteps flow like cascades down busy corridors
up and down automatic stairs
luggage-d and billeted, worries and smiles;
the vaulted ceiling fills with noise, and nearby
the rails still beckon the faraway;
still enchant the wanderer's spirit.

The oval dome holds us like a hive
and the constant swell of human sounds
fade into a buzzing hiss.

We settle eyes to eyes
a final touch before leaving
a kiss that will be remembered
as empty air fills your space
leaves wet traces-  your last kiss...

we both turn to go,
carrying so much more than before...

on the wing

two vultures cross bright  morning sky
 contend with a strong southerly wind
that takes one east too low to soar
and the other riding high to the west

Two vultures -a mating pair it seems-
flew close, wing tips nearly touched
until the lift of wind and gust
drove them apart, now hungers
must find them in their separate ways.

Two vultures driven here and thus
do not reconnect as I spy the breakup
of clouds and hatted heads,
of child's balloons and the dreams they held
and the touch of hungers on the wing
such is the work of wind and sun.

As I reach for the cover of my coat to clasp
keep the warmth of my chest, lest it too,
struggled in gusts and hunger, shall be
 the untouched wing.

the rainy eyes

 

only nine...and the bare white walls
and beeping machines make a strange lullaby
when sleep is for healing, and healing comes like a dream
and the busy doorway
brings strange eyes with deep frowns
and the wonderful smile
of Mom and Dad, friends and their
Moms and Dads.
The things they found make them frown
the brain, and it brings the rainy eyes...
but when nine, storms pass quickly,
the frown cannot linger and
every chance to find a moment of joy- is like
her infectious smile in this antiseptic place; it is
simply...irresistible.

Church…

In a feeling like the growth of a tide

Soft tones rose  beneath the wooden cross

And the agony of Jesus replayed in my eyes

As the crimson robed choir began a gentle sway

And their eyes closed or upward cast, they waited

For voice and spirit to join,  praise sounds

like a song of life when life rises to connect

a moment of feeling to an endless journey

As faith joins the ragged seams

Of beginnings and ends  Into a circle,

bound and unbroken, passed from slave to free 

To claim that faith brought us thus far

And it will carry us forever through.

Loss

A window pane can separate

The seen from that we can touch

But it leaves the airy space open

To that which we can feel

As if you were last there

Near the corner turn, and away

From my sight you go,  and I

Must imagine you, and all I know of you

Is in memory.

It is this way today

The bright sky perceived in a patina, gone gray

The way a bright gull becomes dull, mottled brown

As it floats to ground and sheds the sun

So another breath gone still, nothing in this space

Nothing in that tomorrow…

I close eyes and see a boat passing by

The water swelled in its bow and quieting in its wake

Until still, and moving only

Because of the wind or the unseen tug of the world

And I think the boat has gone, until

The water swirls again; reminding me of

the ceaseless ways of a journey.

A Little Broken...

Once again in an embrace of tender thoughts,
you are there in an air of need, when the body
bends past its bounds, and the brave sounds
of denial, are but flimsy reeds whipped
in a powerful stream.

The eyes that care, and clearly see
the bare wounds and  raw feelings
and once again, you are stronger than you can be
you  do not allow pain that breaks the will,
and will alone connects the jagged seams...
 a little broken

Still you are  the moon in a dream of night
and the beauty that dwells in a dear heart
that holds you always,  in a boundless wish

a thing not done

 

I choose to be near you
And to feel the warmth of loving
Even when you call upon a distant wind
And see across the bend of the world
I choose
I decide to reach for you
Across wrinkled bed covers
And to hold a treasured memory
It is the best use of closed eyes and moonlight
To choose your shadow, and be near you

There are no guarantees in life
No certainty of a thing not done;
when I choose to spend the next breath
in a whisper just for you
I choose, a simple wish…to be near you

Someday not soon enough...

there will be an awakening,

a recovery of sudden awareness
as if rescued from a deep drugged trance

We will be revulsed at the sight

of that we have done
at the poured blood of innocent life

Wet upon our hands

It will come like a wish,

and a nightmare will face us
awakened to what we have allowed,

the senseless slaughter of so many to enrich and amuse so few...

guns and violence

Someday not soon enough, to keep more innocents
alive and in the world

to bathe in the miracles of abundant life
a sad glad day will be, someday…

 not soon enough

wet...

Happiness is the wind

That lifts the wings of the heart

To soar above the world we see

Into a realm of boundless truth;

That within each recognition lays

the possibility of an entire lifetime.

The past is no more clear than tomorrow

It is born still wet, and never dry

Until the end of change when we become

Fixed in a forgotten frame. It is wet

until memory loses touch with its maker,

All pages wither, and its bindings fail.

Even then, might breath disturb the dust…

Or laughter