“Whispering together before a storm,
The leaves take counsel;
And some fly down.”

We're dancing on a
knife's edge,
you and I.
You know it - I can see
the sparkle in your eye.

But do we care? I suppose
there's somewhere deep
down in
where mind sits at its desk
and all the glaring danger signs
flash red.
But on the surface, there's a
bit of gold in knowing
where we stand
for now,
and being free to dance the line
with comfort in your friendship yet
excited
all the same.

We know where we stand:
it's not together,
so we're free to tap the
dance floor lightly
and
smile into the night,
because our words are sparring
in -
well, let's say they
might have crossed the line.

But just our words.
We two?
We're standing side by side
(this side of the line)
and laughing at them,
pointing out the silliness
yet somehow still content
to stay and watch them
anyway
for lingered moments that speak
more deeply
than the words themselves could ever do.

I have no doubt
           that I have seen
                                what it means to love.

all my life it has surrounded me,
the aura and the action
             both entwined as one
                             divinely-fueled
                                                         activity -
both the savor and the sacrifice
of love.

Mother, father,                                    
hear a son rejoicing in the magic
                   of your love
for me, for all the children                
(and their offspring, too)
but more - much more than that,
the love you celebrate today
                             as man and wife united
in the pattern of Christ's love.

Today is a day of memories,
memories that only two
can share,
memories that span for longer
than the days I've walked
                  this earth;

memories of love's first gentle stirring,
in the blush of tender youth,
when sweethearts stood with beating
                     hearts, and eyes spoke more than
                       words;

memories of longing to break down the miles
between,
to close the distance, holding close,
                                      let come whatever will...

memories of certainty, of love's sweet, calm assurance
in the moment that you knew
                   without a shadow's doubt
                     that
                                  "I will always love you"

memories of rings and things, of wedding
               preparations,
                      of whirlwind moments bringing every
                               detail into orbit;

memories of love itself, the tender,
                  sweet communion
       blessed by God above and fruitful
         beyond what man can tell;


memories of love maturing, growing
as you grew,
memories of memories, of standing
strong and true...

these memories are yours alone,
             the precious bond you share,
                        the sacrifice of willingness,
                                 to live for more than you.

Mother, father,                                              
hear a son rejoicing in the magic
                       of your love
in the strong and steady sacrifice
you've lived out day by day;
one for the other, the other for the one,
and both in heart united
as you seek and serve
the One.

Mother.                                          
Father.                              
Today you remember the past,
                       rejoice in the present,
                          and hope for the future;

and I, from the outside looking in, on lives
so, so well-lived...                    
                            ...I weep the joyous tears of one who
                                                sees the Savior
                 in your love.

In the midwinter of the soul,
all is cold and fruit is
nowhere to be found.
Leaves and blossoms that once
sat spinning light and health
have fallen off and lie there,
broken down below.

The forest floor beneath me,
one time,
was carpeted with remnants
of my last sweet spring
of growth.
Abandoned, all but lost,
and listening,
to a moaning in the wind.

But trees don't die in winter;
nor did I.

Spring crept in slowly, bit by bit,
an undiscovered quickness in the
heart, and hints of breath
so far away, so deep within, that
stirrings heard were no more spent
than darkness closed back in.

But still that gentle pressing in the
heartwood of my soul,
kept on, and stronger day by day
until, with terrifying clarity
the parts of me that died
were seeking fully to control
each waking thought.

In the midwinter of the soul,
the heart is cold, and fruits
that once were juicy lie there
rotting on the ground.
And all seems lost within.

But 'tis not so for me, I know,
for Spring has come again
once more, the sap runs true,
runs through each drooping limb.

Lift up your heads, you forests of
the Lord, bowed down,
surrounded,
cold within.
Let light shine forth within you,
let the woodland fairies swim
through waterfalls of blossoms as they
slip from limb to limb,
delighting in the tearing of the
chaining wounds within.

"Bleed once more," He told me,
"let the terror of your sin,
destroy the cold unfeeling
that has wormed at you - and then

at last,
the living, green delight
will sparkle like the stars of
every clear and silent night."

Bear fruit in keeping with the
cleansing of your soul, for
every tree drinks deeply
of the river's rushing flow;
take confidence, a promised voice to hear:

"Well grown, my tree. My good and
faithful bough."
+
And in the brightness of His
majesty, I will forever
bow.

Up on Grandma's kitchen shelf,
a temptation crocked and lidded
tight:
her cookie jar, it beckons me,
well-worn, once-cracked, now-mended -
not with mud new-daubed,
but gold
in every crack

it gleams;

but that is not the treasure
that has seized my heart.

Nay. The treasure is inside.

One time only did I reach within,
one time many-scolded.

"Not for you," she muttered,
gummy, toothless, ancient hag;
"Not for you," she growled.

"Not for any fingers seeking just to
fill their ******* mouths."

And I wondered as she said it,
as I've wondered always since,
at the force and heart within her words,
for the cookie jar was spent.

Empty. Not a crumb inside
- I felt it all around -
empty, all the cookies gone,
to places I had never trod
- in waking hours at least.

Empty - not a crumb inside, but...
...something brushed by me.
Warm and soft and...
...gentle,
like an angel's kiss, or wing;
the golden glitter of a teardrop as it
hangs in sunlit dream.

That - that feeling
is what brushed against me
(wrist-deep and guilty) in my
Grandma's cookie jar.

She bound the jar with leather
and shelved it up much higher,
and scolded me from morning until night.
But heart aflame and
eye caught in wonder,
the magic had bound me up
tight.

I dared not take it down again,
I dared not wrest it's slumber
with another groping, clumsy
hand;
but my eye and heart were on it
and as years passed,
hunger grew.

+

When Grandma died - a miracle,
considering her spells -
at last I dared to keep the jar,
up on my own cook-shelf.
And slowly I unbound it,
leather strap by leather strap,
as the days turned into winter
and the star-symphony danced.

Three years it took to free that
crock
(her spells had hardened
by some brew brought on by
death),
and when it sat untarnished, free,
once more the gold
did glew.

Humble earthen vessel, uplifted
by destruction
and the searing introduction of a molten,
fiery grace:
a simple cookie jar it was,
(this I knew)
and empty as a floor too-swept and clean.

Yet still I longed to feel the
brush of life once more,
glimmering like a secret in
the depth of that fair jar.

So I dipped one little finger in,
crossed the plane marked by it's mouth,
and waited for the magic of
the past.

It came near by gradual nibbles, a skitter-fly
ashamed
to be acknowledged, so it seemed;
but gradually one finger became two,
two three,
and three a hand.

Skitter-fly no longer, the golden pulse
it surged,
stronger by a hundred-fold
than ever I felt before;
and coiled betwixt my fingers
like a honey-snake
and warm.

I knew it then, the cookie jar,
and the cookie jar knew me.

Desire birthed and twirling,
fostered long, but now set free.

I sighed and let the crocken lid
fall back down in its place,
plunged once more the jar in black, and
emptied now for me, it sat
up on my cook-*** stack,
and winked no more
- no more for me.

After that I set a rule up,
for small-kin in my home,
that the cookie jar was sacred,
as it was in Grandma's time.
And any hand that snatched from it,
would turn-about be smacked.

+

And then I sat and waited
for a grubby little hand,
to reach down into empty space
and spark again
the gloam.

“The lines of flowing water clashed,
But they had not hardened yet.
The rosebuds that are cut,
May, watered, open still.”

I was walking through the street

With a hollow in my heart,

Aching for the faces I

Will never see again,

When I looked into the chapel

Standing squat on Broad and 4th,

And saw what makes me wonder,

Why we ever venture forth.



A little old lady, a little old lady,

By the open coffin’s side

Staring at the empty face to whom

She is the bride.

An isolated moment where no love

Can ever hide,

A foretaste of the end to which we

Ever closer tide.

A little old lady by the open coffin’s side;

A foretaste of the end to which we

Ever closer tide.



Left behind with broken faces

Staring down into the grave,

It makes me wonder if we’ll always be death’s

Lifelong slave.

all my sorrows washed away
all my darkness turned to day
every sin and failing weak
every evil word I speak -
He has turned them all to dust
no more dirt and no more rust

blood now boils within my veins
life now covers o'er my stains
God who is the perfect ruler
has stooped to daily be my tutor

What grace! What love! What everlasting light!
What awe! What life! What
ever-growing sight!

i like making homes of
places i have never been
before,
and likely never will again

you must sit still, after you've
found your momentary home
and look around as if this is all
you've ever known;
all the reasons you love
other places
now originate with
this one, in the moment
where you are
right now;
at least, that's what you
have to tell yourself
to make it feel like home

i've made homes of fallen logs,
(a new one every time)
and i've made homes of houses
where my friends have called me
theirs,
and i've made homes of tables
that we sat around
all night,
and i've made homes of faces,
kisses, hands that hold mine
tight;
and i've made homes of bedrooms
where i lay alone at night,
and restless roll through
hours of the
day

and i've made homes of feelings
- when God comes close to me -
when all the joys and sorrows of
this world have all bled through,
and i see the other side
of the page,
where the light shines

i've made homes of many things,
i do it easily,
but the one things that i
haven't done,
is make a home of me.

i met God in the forest today,
climbing a tree
(i, not He)
clambering up a fallen trunk,
propped by a young and
supple birch
- it's not the most divine
of sanctuaries
founded and built
up by men;
but it was enough for me

i stood up, balanced
twenty feet over
soggy earth and leaves
and breathed in the fragrance
of divinity

i met God in the forest today,
climbing a tree
(He, with me)

and i'm still happy, for
He has stayed.

Her face surprises me,
half the time.
The surprise is what it does to me
in just a casual encounter -
all outside of my control,
and all inside that deepest
part of me.
It's like a breath of fresh air, or a
splash of cold water on the face,
first thing in the
morning.
A bracing dose of reality that
leaves me gasping like a fish
out of water.

They say she's supposed to take your breath
away.
I didn't know it was literal,

until today.

We are not ours, and we will have to let us go.

—

Watch her closely as she holds you,

Let her feed and watch you grow,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let her go.

See him smiling as he swings you,

Hold him tight and cuddle close,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let him go.

Kiss their wrinkles as they hug you,

Take their arms and be their cane,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

Hold her hand and let her take you,

To the land of sunset skies,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let her go.

Tell them truly that you love them,

Let them know that you are there,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

Kiss her sweet and let her kiss you,

In the altar’s shadow bright,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let her go.

Love them dearly while you hold them,

Tie their hearts like one with yours,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

See them smiling as you swing them,

Hold them tight and cuddle close,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

Kiss their wrinkles as you hug them,

Take their hearts and hold them tight,

But forget not at their end,

That

You will have to let them go.

Watch them hold hands as they tell you,

Of the land of sunset skies,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

See them stand and pledge before you,

In the altar’s shadow kiss,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

Hug the children that they bring you,

Let them kiss your wrinkled face,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

—

Tell them all how much you love them,

Hold their gaze and squeeze their hands,

For now that you are at the end,

You will have to let them go.

Hold her tight and let her kiss you,

Though your eyes are dim and sore,

For now that you are at the end,

You have to let her go.

—

Tell this always as you teach them,

That this life is not all ours,

For in the end, remember,

We will have to let us go.

The careless page on lamp-stand resting,

With pure white the glow reflecting,

Catches the sore wand’ring stranger’s eye,

And keeps it there without a sigh.

He reads thereon a poet’s verses,

Sore reflecting many hearses,

That should have rightly never rolléd,

Bearing corpses cowl- and hooded.



“Oh, the manner that he writes in!”



Thus the words that cross his cracking lips,

While tears run down to fill the rips.

Then eye, though dimmed, still struggling onward,

Next reads words that turn him upward,

Looking to the bright heav’nly places,

Where God with parted soul paces,

And—leaning down through clouds—soft touches,

Man’s heart so now again he blushes.



“What a manner that he writes in!”



“What god-like genius inspires him so,

Such lofty heights to rise unto?

Do Muses bright surround him—ringéd

In fair halo slight and gilded?

Or warrior-like hews he his figures,

Out of flesh and blood by measures,

‘Til the beauty shining forth o’erwhelms,

All other mortal verséd poems?”



“Which the manner that he writes in?”



Weary much from traveling afar,

The stranger sleeps him under star,

And as he dreams he sees the poet

—Yet in thought he does not know it--

Who sitting desk-bound looks about him,

Searching for poetic fountain;

And ne’er receiv’d he supernal aid,

But from this life poetry made:


That broad noble brow in thought contracts:

The genius broods; his mind he wracks.

Then eye with pure, clear light shines—spilling

Evanescent* light, so thrilling,

And lip with rev’rent murm’ring carries

Sweet words to ear and gentle lays,

While pen—by trembling fingers wielded--

Marks the page to make sure-founded;



This, the manner that he writes in.

memories, like ashes flung
across the web of time -
are half-burnt logs where dreams still
sputter;

and I bid them all goodbye

no one knows the sorrows,
nor the joys of light unseen,
when stirring through the ashes
of yesterday's dreams

farther than an ocean spread
the eagle eye has seen,
but never can the keenest
pierce that gray and ashy sheen

the past is gone - a mirror
of our present selves, I think -
the things we see there
gratify the darlings and the beasts
+
memory, like ashes flung
across the net of time -
are proof that life one time
was lived:
that fevered dream of mine

now dead                      

below the surface,
where the dust is soft and blows
in the gentle gentle breeze;
below the hardened crust of teardrops
raining down down
through the trees:

there the shifting ashes lie;
the happiness of dreams,
the lifting light of love's delight,
the lightning at the seams

and there I roam,
a lost forlorn,
a citizen of dreams
that long ago have burnt to ash
and scattered all my things
+
memory, like ashes flung,
across this web of mine,
with shadows in the corner comes
and wakes the dragon Time

each forward step                          
              a drop of fuel
                 each hour
a log of pine

and always always flickering
that fire we all call mine

till memories, like ashes flung,
across the wrinkled line,
fill up the span my steps have spun
and dry the noonday sun

+

and I stirred the fire to flame again
and thought of her no more

every moment I sit
on the edge
twiddling my thumbs
right next to insanity

tender lies, spoken
in whisper,
root themselves within
and spread moments of weakness
all dolled up as
strength.

I know the thrill
of falling

deeply

into the heart of
abandon,
headfirst, the warm
and gentle darkness
keeping my eyes in place,
fixed upon it:

my broken and perverted
crucifix

many hands stretched out to wound him,
reaching for the God of Souls.

so mine reach out to claim her,
clamoring
for the sweet ungodly savor of my
goddess
and the beggarly delighting
of her tender gaze on me.

perverse pageantry,
the ritual of very God above
imitated in the wasting
of this ******'s
soul.

stretched out for all to see,
just like he.
pierced through and bleeding
from head, heart, hands, and feet -
so she is pierced
for me.

not to save, but to delight.
uplifting?

bringing low
+

blasphemy, you say?
indeed.
of the deepest and the darkest
dye,
conceived in hell, the devil's spawn of this idea
swam upward to life through
layers of molten lies.

they burn, unceasing.

If you could tear one part of you and cast it far away, what ***** would you...

...fool! think not
escape to find without a light
trust not
the fickle heart to leave any part of you to lie severed
in the cold for long.
you'd search for it, and find in reunion cause
for celebration of the
darkest kind.

lay flat instead
upon the sun-pocked surface of this lightless planet
that you call a soul.
lay bare your helplessness
to the falling stars
and take the fatal blow that falls down
from on high.

no life without death,
no freedom without a brand
new set of chains.
do you actually believe it possible to change,
without such bitter pangs?

undo your only hold on life
and in the process gain
a claim to thrones eternal
and the everlasting
flame.
+

shadows of the devil's crucifix are haunting me.
desire, love, and beauty lick their lips
and wait for me.
but shifting like the broken
veil within, the pageantry I see
unfolds,
mist falls away; reality breaks free.

the shattered, broken
body of a god,
hangs limply on a tree.
lightning flashes, and a flood of unrefracted clarity
destroys the feathered patchwork
of my soul.

held aloft before him,
I scream.
forced to watch the devil's prodding,
dancing in their glee

I can never, never be free.
compelled by love more fierce than fire,
inflamed with all the agony of
purifying blood,
I lay a hand upon him,
and I weep like God above.

all this for me;                    
         all this,
                                            for heaven's enemy.

Just look at us
we're perfect strangers,
human and alone
self-containing centers
of our sorrows, joys, and pains.

I walk beside you
humming like a radio wave,
but you are tuned just
differently enough
that all you hear is static.

Just look at me!
A perfect stranger.
Human, meet my gaze,
and tell me that
the magic we are feeling
is contained
in you and me.

How could it be?

Just look at you,
you perfect stranger.
What lies hidden
in those eyes?
What beauty can be
gleaned without
a distillating
word?

Just look.
We're perfect strangers,
all of us; and yet
a current runs between,
and all it takes to show it
is a moment to be seen.

Shared for a moment,
before we pass on.

Treading our own paths;
and humming
to
a universal theme.

Whisper, shiver,
Quake with fright,
A devil's voice is heard tonight.

Shifting dreams of
Usurpation
Fill the leader of
this nation.

"Come and make
These voices leave,
All this wicked
Whirlwind relieve -

Your music has a
Soothing power,
O'er this demon's
Constant glower

So come and sing,
You shepherd warrior;

Come and frighten
My destroyer."

Colors cascaded around
her smile, laughing like the
first blooms of spring bearing up
under the last ***** blush
of winter's kiss.

I laughed with the colors. Red and
orange and the softest sunset pink - blue
like diamonds from the sky, and green
as thick and billowed as the freshest
prairie wave.

She danced in my heart like a
fairy more happy and pure than
childhood itself.
No sorrow overwhelmed that vision,
though it tainted the edges on every side.
The more I looked the more I could
see their angry boiling, creeping
like the wrinkled edge of a wildfire
dying to infect and purge the light.
But she shone.
Framed by that dark storm
on every side, and scarfed
with a cascade of colors more
brilliant than I knew how to
imagine.

The wheels of her chair spun,
the trembling of her hands flung
a million stars aloft at every quiver.
In the wrinkles of her face
I saw the individual moments of a hundred years
condense,
and a tear fell off her chin
as she looked at me and whispered,
"Look within."

"I am," I said,
and cried myself, the thin
and watery tears of age, long toil,
and unrelenting joy.
Her time had come and
mine had not and yet the
silence of our breathing was
enough to still this final
terrible, beautiful, terrifying storm.

I took her hand and squeezed it
gently, laid it down
on her lap and
whispered in her ear that
hung down low with time,
"Look down on me, when you
are gone.
I follow close behind."

i didn't mean to find a flower
on my journey through the forest
but there it was
trying
to bloom in a
crevice of the rock