I basked in the joy of the chord
In the vibrations of the perfection
Of harmonies that reverberated to my core
That sang deep to my soul

Those notes were familiar
The dynamics lowered and lifted
Me through the air in the lofted church
Ceiling and stained glass reflections

As my daughter sang from the mass of robes
I remembered singing from that same stage
On that same white marble stage where
I stood with my mom so many years ago

A smile and a tear leapt up from my heart
As I remember those chords with my mom
So happy she was to be looking down
At her granddaughter singing so sweet

Her red lips like the roses of a cracking stained glass window
When she leaned in to whisper her secret
The words falling from them like demons through a gate
Into a crumbling church

Into my ear

I had sat in those pews
With zealous eyes and thoughts upon those lip-red roses
But one by one her demons came like whispers
And cracked the red stained window like a breaking heart

I've put you to sleep with a song,
And you sleep like a rarity,
Lying deep in a treasure chest,
Veiled by the lure of ample gold.

And my lullaby continues,
Yes, much like a prayer it does,
In a mellow light pouring in,
From the stained glass that your church boasts.

But as my voice grows fragile,
This lullaby might go quiet;
Insnity might condemn me,
To deem you dead, to deem love gone.

And thus, I must wait and see,
If you'd remember what I said,
"Lest I should ever think love dead,
Wake up and say, 'It's not, it's not'."

on the eve of our creation.. we are to notify and observe the makers..  in route in the night sky we view the creator below..  
in their mega cities.. in their modest homes..  how the creator lived before they were the creator..  

on acts of creation they are abound unknownly..


the creators have made themselves without knowing what they are..
and always they arrive at a point where they conceive us..  

the creators allow us to view them in their worse state of living..  where war is still livid in their life away from being the creators..

where the creators live and die..

until they learn there is no dying..

only creation..

the creators allow us to watch us being created.. they allow the moment to us.. where we were made. when we were made.. the idea.  the answer.  the creation.. its who we are because of the creators..

mass has ended....

religion is comfort
to some
religion is kind
to some

religion is pain
to some
religion is rude
to some

religion is uncomfortable
to me
religion is saddening
to me

to be in a church
with people i don't and never will know
a recital, a show
'not religious' they say

and yet the elegant white arches
and the soft red velvet
and the books, so many books
they could be used to educate

and yet the riches of this church
are used for the rich already
and not for the kids
the kids who want to learn
not pray
the kids who want to leave
not stay
i just want to learn piano,
i say

no, 'its not religious'
they always say
if its 'not religious'
then why won't you let me walk away

my own importance is swallowed like a pill,
by the resonance of his voice,
vocabulary ****** dry and replaced with a sheen of the need to
stay so unbearably quiet.

i always want to waltz in open spaces,
feel the air rushing past my arms as i spin,
but walking into a house so white and so cold,
i feel like i have ignored the welcome mat at the door.

it's his alleged presence,
or maybe it's just my own scepticism acquiring the patina of caution.
i walk with soft slow steps as if not to wake the dead in the garden,
cut short the swirl of my movements,
replace air vents in cartilage joints with rocks or plaster.
am i even supposed to feel like a person in my own right?

i wish someone would drop a pin for me to assess the quiet,
but there is a soft small current of people feeling at home,
or the quiet and the cautious mixing in like a cavity in a set of white teeth.

when i step back out into the sun,
my lungs grow fuller with oxygen, the leaves appear greener and the sky is more vibrant.
i do not feel his eyes on me as much; or the weight of being contained.
perhaps he just wanted me to go home.

Ghostly tombs flourish the deadly spirits,
and as they reach purification,
their Mother God embalms them with honey bliss,
a war of earthquake kiss.

Floating upon the waters
has been natural for me
on my wavy journey of faith
yet for most of my life I have been moored
to one or another church or spiritual dwelling
and there in the six directions
of the medicine wheel
or in mindful silence and meditation
I found solace and inspiration
and challenges to be a better man.

Born into the Roman church
from a mother whose tie to sanity
was her rosary
each bead a knot
and the chain her bond to the holy.

Novenas, prayers, litanies, and creeds
became the native tongue
taught when we were young
mysteries and sensory symphonies
of the rituals filled us to the brim
spilling dreams and designs
for a special future
ending in the Great Upthere.

But a destiny of storms
awaited me on my journey there
as I fled into a barren night
a zeal and appeal of career my light.

Now in the lateness of life
I am again moored in a church
in love with several humble followers
of Jesus the Christ there
songs and Word and wisdom fill the air.
And back home I have my own medicine woman of a wife
a five decade anchor of faith
a vessel and fiery heart full of love.

So here I am no longer floating
or boating from one port to another
my friends are dying and growing old
my body battered and heart weary
but I am alive, again brimming and often teary
for God has taken hold of me
Jesus who hounded me has tackled this old fool
and the Spirit has chiseled and shaped a jewel
tenderized my heart with his reckless love,
his overwhelming endless push and pull
and with his merciful Light has re-created and made me full.

touch me with your human eye and die,
swirling hallucinations change the thought into unsheathed spell,
petals of vows kneeled into temptation,
the force of the Goddess alleviates the pain of mankind,
deaths after mountains of deaths,
come spirits of the Earth,
I clean and purify your prayers,
today you will succeed beyond your terror,
come feed yourself with virtues from above,
grapes, peaches, roses of the night.