Let me chance upon a secluded nook
Where Life's bitter torments seem to cease;
There I shall transcribe a most dismal book ---
My heart's voiceless pain seeking release;
A field of daisies swaying in good cheer
Might lighten this burden so sad and drear

Or  I might climb to the top of a hill
Where the scent of heather stirs the air,
And the clear mountain springs sputter and spill
Over ferns dwelling happily there;
A comforting balm shall course through my veins
As my heart dictates its mournful refrains

While tides ebb and flow o'er a restless sea,
My pen will scrawl with a feverish zest;
And when all endurance is drained from me,
On some grassy knoll I'll take my rest;
As the night unfolds its jeweled canopy
My heart will shed its cloak of agony

But should more toil await as night draws near,
Pity me not for this endless day;
For life has ****** many a poisoned spear,
And this poet's heart must have its say;
Not till the very last vestige of pain
Is expelled, will my heart find peace again

I'm aware of the things that come from the woods.

The brooding water paths pushing to the west.
A quiet sprinkling of pine
  needles and
flooding near the
Ash Groves when the winters come

the winter's spent.

Cities are strangers and pavement is trapped soil
waiting for my hands to dig them up and build a
refuge out of dying-to-get-out-of-here-dirt

I'm dying to get out of here dirt.

I left myself in the absent way
a butterfly leaves the cocoon but do not know of what

I'm seek
  ing .

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

She stood, barefoot,
at his burial
It was August and hot
Her onyx, knee length hair, hung loose,
blowing in the storm she was conjuring
Hailing from the eastern skies
Her burnt oil eyes, dry
She had no need for tears,
Heaven would cry for her
Born the first of 13
in a long line of darkened blood
300 years bread from Ireland,
to the Cumberland mountains and rolling hills
Every first before her, Born with a caul
"Knowing"
Each generation striving for 3 daughter's and seven sons
Seventh sons born water witches
Each first daughter a
"Seer", amongst other dark blessings
Cauls kept, and buried at midnight 'neath willow branches for blessings
These first daughters,
bore one of three hairs,
raven black, silver, or gold
from birth
Never greying
I watched her
stayed with my grandmother
beside her husband's grave
Till night fell
Her hair, never went grey

Nailed and ******* on hands and legs,
Maimed and marred beyond repair,
Cut and bruised out of shape,
Stripped and peeled, so bare to shock,

Lo, there lies a man! The Son of God,
On a cross erected on the summit of the Mount,
Brutally suspended between Earth and Sky,
Stationed amid thieves on either side.

He slipped and slithered under the yoke of weight,
And tottered the rugged route to Calvary,
Scourged and flogged all along,
He bore the cross with none to help.

Never complained nor cursed but suffered the pangs,
Never whined nor moaned, but drained the cup,
Through His death, mankind was to be redeemed,
By His precious blood, their infirmities to be cleansed

It was for our sins that He lay down His life,
It was our misdeeds that made Him bleed,
It was for our lust that He was painfully stripped,
It was our arrogance that bent Him low.

None could gauge the agony he endured,
No man ever performed such a daring deed,
To liberate mankind, the Lamb was slain,
To lead his Flock, He walked in front.

‘Love your enemy’ was the mantra He recited,
What He preached, He relentlessly practised,
While writhing in pain, He prayed for His foes,
Pleaded with his Father to spare the wrath.

When wrongly accused, never said He a word,
Unruffled remained He on painfully betrayed,
Hard it was to be deserted by those He loved,
Sore it was to be treated so very rude.


The Son of Man came seeking the missing sheep,
He builds from where everything is wrecked,
Rejoice in Him, for He is our Lord!
Adore and worship, He deserves to be praised.

Peace was what He promised the world,
Grace was what He gifted to all,
Look up to the Cross when trials confront,
And cast your burden at His feet!

Note the time
by seasonal migration
return of osprey, eagle
each feathered pearl
a moment strung
on the banded necks
of brants and loons
velvet-lined memories
gathered within
my threatened
wild spaces

raindrops find
their way home
watch them bead
on the backs
of sitting ducks
serenely surfing
sibilant waves
silkily filling
oceans within
my tumultuous
wild heart

Once you’ve gone
what more is there
to say about leaving

or, for that matter,
the impermanence
of measured words.

All I can do is stand
alone in the backyard
and listen to the wind.

A late frost killed
the magnolia buds

and the forsythia
never materialized.

And so I wait for the worms
to begin their earthy work.

I wait for the pink moon
to rise above the rooftops.

I wait for the smell of mock orange
and the blue of a broken robin’s egg.

But most of all
I wait for your
words to bloom,

to tell me, finally,
that spring is here—

that the gardens we tend to
have something more to say.

Teresa climbs on the bus
before the sun, if she has
the fare

to get there, where she
makes the bread; she's been at this
two of her nineteen years  

yet she has fears, they will
come for her--green card or not;
though they like her rolls

she kneads the big *****, pulls,
pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying
of trays, one after another

then, from the Iglesias,
they come, decked in their finery
though she does not see

she only hears the litany
of language she can't comprehend,
a clanging of trays, laughter

the urging of the jefe to work
faster, bake the bread; the communion
wafers did not fill them

now they are here, breaking fast,
forgetting the words they just heard
the songs they sang

Teresa does not complain; she
is glad to feed the worshipers, though
they will never know her name

nor will they stop for
her in the pouring rain,
the blistering sun

Teresa never wavers
next Sabbath will be the same:
dawn, the dough, the oven

it is the work--her hands
which make the bread others break,
the grace granted to serve

holy, holy, holy...