Tag: spiritual poetry

Fly Away Home, Blessed Body

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.

Present Perfect

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.

The Country of Illness

In the country of Illness
I live in a town called sick
Squabbling and wordless
Rounded outwardly and thick.

Playing the Cat

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

Saving Rescuers

Stronger than knives or strokes and
Beleaguered, lonesome old oaks,
Together again, those wings, the trees,
Gasping at them as I forgot to sing.
Spanning years’ dimly stated demands
Its our last night in the Neverland.

Film Noir Femme

The pain in your veins, heat aghast, you faint.
The hole swallows her body and soul.
Why in the universe do we know something exists at all,
If we pretend to see, to know, bite a fruit and fall.
Algorithmic syncopated circus acts,
And drums tight as a father’s facts.

Maps and Legends

We all fall down.
The ground grows smaller,
As I pass the Earth,
Becoming her daughter.
Funny to stand today, 
Eclipsing the sun.
My books marked still,
On page one.

Half a Block Away

There is no greater sorrow than to recall the misery in time we were happy – Dante A belligerent handshake, a reluctantly shared cab. “You know where to let me out?” Your smile, a dagger, Mouth unwrapping secrets, your sleeves full of cards. My stomach twists into a gilded fist, so hard, Throwing a kiss,

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I, Sheherezade, I

“Function, sweetheart.” A line in code, Bogart, feeling the burnt calamity, The sweat of cities, And the hearts all pretty. Served with new orders, realizing She flinched dramatically yet faintly, Rudely chortled, then crossed her “i”s. He barely escaped a double, a body, The usual. She’s pretty, toiling for trouble. Yet Who’s the true Scheherazade?

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Free Time

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

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