Elegant Bones

In the end
we will be stripped down
to our elegant bones,
bare and naked as we entered,
without the burden of possessions or status.
Others will follow,
they will come and take our place
and the circles of life will continue
toward their infinite centers...
The ticking of the clocks on the walls
will not stop because we depart,
the changing of the seasons will remain faithful.
Outside the window the blue birds will return each spring
to fledge their progeny from the trees
we planted with the children when they were young.
Perhaps they will build tree houses
for their offspring in the strong branches that grew from our efforts,
and tell them how they buried sticks of faith
in the cold clean earth with the help of their Grandparents aging hands
in the fall
when they were small.

The Spilling of Stars

After awhile
we learn to take love
into our own hands, don’t we?
Sooner or later we cease
foisting the responsibility for our fulfillment
onto another.
Having been fooled time and again
by the fickleness of lust,
the passing of passion, the fears of each others failures,
we return to the reliable and uncomplicated
solitary satisfaction; the knowing that we are forever really alone.
And that there are secrets that only our aloneness can hold.
Love is always,
and forever filled with complexity,
constantly changing gowns and masks
and demanding a transformation from us.
Love alternates between whisper and scream,
Come up higher .
And we release each other from the
impossible bondage of expectation.
What is as familiar or as safe as our own hand?
What else can contain the spilling of stars
from our personal galaxy...without risk?
Nothing quite like the haven of our own soft palm.

In Arms Still Warm

I dreamt your flesh
draped across mine, cell to cell,
Like grass on the undulating earth.
Tiny blades of lust
crept along the carpet
tickling the forgotten into wakefulness
and I could hear my own moaning;
a hunger as plaintive as an African infant’s plight,
deprived of sustenance for far too long,
shrinking and shriveling, starving and wasting.
But I dreamt your hands entering into my skin
removing the dark aloneness.
I awoke with a start
lying in arms
still warm.

Something Old or Something New

Was this sudden crush of pressure
something old or new;
this dread that descended on me
from the nucleus of contentment.
As unexpected as a rose in December,
The sudden seepage of fear’s tears
running down the cracks of yesterday.

Fear born under the lamplight of peace
started to climb the pole of reminiscence.
Ancient is that sting meted out with
a cold winds breath
its icy hands tight around the throat of today’s happiness.

Thorns against the torn flesh,
as tender as the first time
Something unexpected unearthed
this great wound of mine
searching, searching for a clue,
Is it something old or is it something new?

Midnight Fingers of December

I stand naked

against the midnight fingers of December.

They should be frigid,

but instead are uncharacteristically balmy,

practicing their spring song across my waiting flesh.

Like a keyboard aching to spill music, skin senses creation

and I emerge slightly out of tune.

leaving the indoor warmth of winter.

Letting the night touch the black and white of me,

the flat and sharp of me with its moonless creeping....

and something springs and something sings.

What is it about the pores and keys that just lie waiting

for the hand of creation to slip against a slender ivory thought;

where they birth the finger's seed....

slightly out of tune

but singing their practice song for Spring across my flesh.

The Great Blue Heron's Song

He arrives from the north,
with faithful regularity;
a sunrise glide, of
graceful, blue grey movement on the morning
decending on my thoughts.
Through the marsh and tall grass of unkempt beauty
he wades the ponds periphery
as light beams filter through the woods
falling across his frame.
Patience stands sentinel in stillness
along the banks
where he is always rewarded
with the morsels of land and water...
His long beak cradling fish and frog, as
wings spread and beat against the sky,
he turns to say goodbye and
as he came, so he goes
lifting his frame on high.

The Other Side of Now

...why not be a bridge
fashioning yourself across the span
from wounded heart to wounded heart;
No moats or dams, walls or fences....
Why not lay yourself down for tread and travel,
an expanse of love for reaching safely
the other side of now.

Keeping Safe The Miracles of May

I am falling
like a crooked smile
slipping downward at the corners
on a tired and painted clown.
Landing against the doorway
of doubt, creaking with invitation.
It is open a crack, this rickety door
waiting to devour dreams
slipping through on the tears of disbelief.
Hushed and quiet hope
mingles here with despair.
I cannot see the leaves of spring,
the flowering of wild seed
buried under a child’s impatience;
Bare with the hibernation of waiting.
Faith a cornice
of icicles clinging to the edges
of a house of belief.
Frozen in the winter of endless waiting,
pendants of translucent change;
the still and sacred secrets that
keep safe the miracles of May.