atlas—
your shoulders
crack and crumble;
dust and dirt fall from
the corners of your
aching joints; you are
ageing like stone.
your body, quivering,
is not made
of marble,
but the fissures
like tree roots on
your arms glimmer
gold and blue
and green—and
you are forced to
stand still, tall,
sturdy; as if
you were nothing
but a pillar,
reaching up to
heaven, grounded
forever to the earth.
atlas—
the weight of the
world is an anchor
on the curve of
your spine.
shaking, shaking,
like the scattered
rings of saturn—
oscillating.
atlas—
collapse.
atlas—
crumble, fragment;
dream of feathers
and dust and billowing
air, and all that is
light and gentle—
and melt.
atlas—
loosen your fingertips,
let the world slip
from your shivering
hands.
atlas—
even stone
can turn to dust.
atlas—
disintegrate.

O morning sky of endless blue
Tinged with purply-pinky hue
You tell me of His mercies new
Whose heart pursues my own

O geese in wingèd winter's flight
Your honking cries arouse delight
And lift my gaze to seek thy sight
As wooing from His hand

O softest breeze which skims my face
And stirs with such mysterious grace
My soul to reach for Love’s embrace
You brush me with His kiss

O snowflakes falling to the ground
You pierce my heart without a sound
To crave a purity only found
Beneath a bloodied cross

O setting sun in half-light glowing
Waning day’s last glorious blush showing
You paint with fire my spirit’s own knowing—
This life is fading fast

O stars of midnight’s blackest sky
Paraded forth, you pull my eye
Toward One Who speaks this ceaseless cry:
“I’m coming back for you.”

O creeping fog to dawn’s light clinging
You whisper, Love’s veiled message bringing,
With haunting echoes faintly singing,
“Lose all of you in Him.”

I shed my skin.
Winter take my petals,
Leave me naked
With the wind.
Bare, you see me.
Love's stunted growth?
The leaves were
Only ever a facade.
Sweet Jesus,
Let the sap taste as sweet
As promises given
In early spring.
I shed my skin.
Please love me still.

Be what you are!
Be a moving picture star
if you want to take it that far.
Drive a huge fancy foreign car.
Or write a great book
All about the chances you took.
Sit beside a picturesque brook
And immortalize how the trees shook.

Go on and tell!
Say who you are as well.
Don’t wait for the final bell
You won’t get to hear the knell.
Chose the right words.
Set them and you free as a bird.
Make people know what they heard.
Create awe with what has occurred.

Maybe you can paint.
And let people see what ain’t
Or the halo of a beloved saint.
Maybe just to trigger critical complaint.
Or maybe you carve things
Complicated stuff like angel wings.
Carve so you feel the joy that it brings;
To stir the inner soul with wonderings.

Be what you are.
Even if people stare at a scar
Or run away as fast and as far.
Those shallow folk will end up in a bar.
Or maybe you stammer
When something makes you stutter
And people laugh at every word you utter.
What you are made of is so much better.

there is a flower bed and a cow,
called margaret, how delightful.

the villagers are dressed
well for their situation,
their station.

the child drooped, pined,
no thought though
of horror and melancholia.

dressed in a plain clean way.

as are we all here.

sbm.