A blue velvet bag opened by this single Movement – her hand reached Into the spaciousness above And all stars’ light unpacked, and Secreted away in drawer full of daydreams. Now the seashore glistens With the promise of night, and Eternally luminous With all the befores, And all the ever afters, Moving our millions of tears Into a single smiling river. “Goodnight my beautiful bodies,” And we fly away home, laughing.
Tag: poems about spirituality
Riding passenger side snapping right, I’m down in front stealing long exposures. From the back seat our youth sits Mocking us with instant polaroids. Destroyed pictures of minutes and memory Precious and precarious slip a stone At once here and at once gone. Right under the driver breaks hard and higher Up another mile, silently
Weather and evening corralled the horses inside.
Our engines idled, cooled, then died.
Suddenly yet expectantly (as ice or apple pie)
Boring holes in us with collapsible eyes —
Like summer left us in an awful rush,
So the bent boys gasped
As tall awkward girls cried.
I find all the sunshine ever shined,
Filtered through my forests, my pin pupil eyes.
And I, without permission,
Acting out against all advice –
Finally stare into the sun.
In the country of Illness
I live in a town called sick
Squabbling and wordless
Rounded outwardly and thick.
Nestled pyramids, soldiers of sand,
No servants hand, no strangers.
No one died today, no saints
Made. Cat wore the Ankh,
Carried the dog headed staff,
Drawing along the sea crooked to
And fro on the sand, wand dragging
Not the first, nor ever last, The Second Line dances ecstatically past. Behind the mourners, they’re not the saints, All uplifted, marching in crowded street’s restraints. Wheeling, turning, lift and fall with porch swings, All souls rise upon the polls and upon night’s owl’s wings. Arriving I walked through stranded streets, Leaving, I grasp a heart
I. We visit this carnival bright striped stripped with neon, Inert gasses to breathe and a feast of brothers to feed on. For some think they can earn a place of grace with honey and gold, Bolder still creating truth in lines measured and ribald. They never find out the punchline to the joke or