The beauty of the desert
Is not in the land;
Barren, dry, harsh and bitter.

The beauty of the lake
Is not in the water;
Brackish, still, cold and endless.

The beauty of a man’s soul
Is not in his prayers;
Angry, conciliatory, false, importunate.

Look up

All reflects what shines above
Sun painting mountains pink
Glint of light on wave
Love that gives more than it takes

Beauty in the eye of the beholder
Blessing in the eye of the beloved
Perfection in reflection

Peace within and without
This walks with us
The vessel must be open
To receive the wine.

Blue water laps at blue tile.
blue depths beckon.
I will float in the starry silence
and play Ophelia one last time;
a sacrifice to the playwright.

Jumbled, run-on, fragment…
thoughts are like ill-written sentences.
I drop my shirt, choose another
curl into the linen closet
cry.


Stop the thoughts
I don’t want to know.
Seek the white noise
surround myself in sterility.

In the blue blue water
no agony of the soul exists,
no god-thrown insult as exquisitely painful
as what flies in and out of my mind

on the wings of a crow.

The son of a carpenter climbed a cross
And Saturnalia was lost forever…
Slaves, adorned in masters clothing
once drank out of the golden goblet and goosed the mistress
vied with paupers for King of Fools
banged pots and pans, slept with sloe-eyed boys til morning
poked, prodded, pampered, kissed, and loved again
The solemn lords of the city peered from their heavenly contemplations
and felt, like a worm in the mysticism of direct communication with    god
a bit of remorse, a hint of resentment against the marble steps,
a yearning for the dance, for the abandonment of the senses
for a pageant worthy of those ***** old gods

MITHRAS, BACHUS, DIANA, DISCORDIA.

Before Christmas pushed jostled and shoved the holiday
out of the way,
we opened our homes to all the poor
they become the masters for the day.
while we ran behind with dishcloths and wild cries of
DON”T BREAK THAT
and infused with a small perverse pleasure
took our masks down for a night -
I will play sly servant lass
while my staid husband is forced into corners
with women who struggle to keep their teeth in
And their children fed.

If there were no Jesus,
the tree would still go up for the Norse
the presents still go out for the British
the children still adored for Saturn
the feast still cooked for the old Germanic tribes –

humility, guilt and being saved, saved, saved
saved from the drunkards in the streets,
saved from the firecrackers, the happy children, the Yule log,
saved the togetherness, the topsy-turvy of this most celebrated
happy out-of-control neighborly Solstice ancient block party-

That came from Christ.

Thanks Jesus, you old scrooge.

Hail Mary
Grace that was yours
Grace of soul, of spirit
Stalled suddenly by stray bullet.

Hail Mary…
One more bead
Drawn and centered
You the center
Always the center
Center of it all.

Hail Mary,
beads slip through fingers,
You slipped through our hands
Through the sands,
Into the sand and into the hands of
Our Father, who art in heaven

Glory be thy name
Hallowed ground
Hollowed dirt
Honor exchanged for hope
Graceless bargain,
Thy will be done.

A snake rattles and
slithers to the rock where
it will hide in serpent secrecy like
a tongue in mouth that lies.

A boot fears no snake bite
hardened leather and harder soles
as protected as a buried coffee can in the desert
baked impenatrable, this the snake will not bite.

The unshod foot, the unsuspecting mouse are
fair prey for the fangs that drip a poison
that kills without mercy, ****** with impugnity
and swallows whole those who trust.

Better be a boot; inflexible, unpenetrable,
than a bare foot or quiet mouse
when snakes lurk
in the secret shadow whispers of the dark.

When the flowers begin to grow
the tender sprouts require constant
vigilance:  fed, watered and shaded
babied as they begin to grow.
Long and rangy, the show the promise
of buds in the tips of their long bodies.

Then they bloom, no assistance needed
One day just needy stalks
the next a profusion of gentle lilac
and vivid yellow and ***** red
blue, white, pink.
The delicate petals entice the insects
and charm the air with sensory beauty.

But comes a colder time
buds may crumble and revert to weeds
blossoms browning and begging for release
Bulbs straining to escape the clay *** on the patio
It’s a careful gardener who knows when
the time comes to cut off the blooms
plant the bulbs in the wild

where they will bloom for strangers.

I can not I can not
let loose this slender thread of beads
memories on a string of prayers
a few Hail Mary's thrown in
at the end of a long game

I can not forget this torn
this ripped shredded posture
lying like a shattered mirror on the linoleum
Curled like a fetus on the floor
I can not


I can not see
Prometheus replayed
Green lights and muted beeps
Electronic hourglasses
Scissors wait to cut the beads
No forgiveness,
the gods have sublet Olympus

I can not
Though autumn starts a new season
and leaves drift on the empty bleachers;
The rains bring new green weeds,
rank and inviting in the wet field

but I can not.