There once was a young man
lost at sea.

For days his mother wept.
An old man came.

Solemn she begged,
"Bring him back."

"A life for a life,
that is the law."

"My years are at an end,
his has just begun."

That night she bled
until daybreak.

The men appeared, fished
her son on their vessel.

She smiled with no fare-wells,
and left.

Her son held no funeral,
made no tears,

became a drunkard
and died just the same.

Nobody talks
of love
thrown into a gutter.*

There is no glory in leaves
rotted to mulch,
turned with dirt.
They drain
and clog.

One look begins our pain,
one sweep ends their suffering.

We attend
at all times
a need to strive
and tend our strife.
To clear the heap,
we burn,

return to ourselves in a corridor of light,
and make do with the bareness of our hands.

The mind follows,
the will carries.
We reach

and let go.
Our smoke
glides the current,

for dreams do not die,
only granted
to the passing-by.

Markings

    He asked the farmer, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the sun that burns
    his crops.

    He asked the fisherman, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the sea that drowns
    his ships.

    He asked the laborer, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the earth that burdens
    his body.

    He asked the soldier, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes
    it is the battle that destroys
    his home.

    He asked the priest, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the cross that bloodies
    his soul.

    He asked the child, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is his father that treads
    his worth.

They march
withered but undying
with mud
fallen sweetly on their faces.

A new sky and a tender wind
grant severance from the sea.

Haunt us no more
with your pikes and arrows.
Blend our moanings and call our names:

the sunflower,
the wind,
the moonshine breaks

a mirrored frame,
a knighted sky,
and iron cast in embroidered lace.

I lay my hopes in
a hinterland of grace/waste.

What will a soul bring
that a body cannot
in sorrow or in death?

When sentiments of corpses
hang high from windows
paneled by offense,

stars fall on broken strings.

Do not fear life
nor death
but being caught in between.

dredge in mud
knee deep
but sky high

trudge the sludge
plod the crud
and form tracks

nearly sighted
look far
to reach

growth will follow

.               they said
.                               so
.                                   it was let
.                                                   alone
.                                                            in the dark
.                                                           ­                     side
.                                                                ­                       by side with me.