Lord:

no bequest requested.
no grant, no teach,
no need or greed asked
just a hey listen up,
if your attention is elsewhere

this is an
all-on-my-own
prayer that
my eyes only utter,
my tongue,
self-silenced,
can only watch
and must approve

in fact,
this is more
of a post
than a prayer,
updating you
on the state
of what we Earth temporaries
call the heart, mind, soul
and even our,
your-designed
crafted carrier,
my body

Mine enemies call me
cursed, embittered,
they are right - but fools,
they are
so much more than wrong,
for in this they err grievous,
for they cannot see their own
bile provisioning their end

ask for no interference
from the sidelines
neither from the
sapphire mother sky
that raised me up gloriously
this morning

nor the emerald earth
that this day
both gives and gets
common bounty
gives me sustenance,
as much spiritual
as grained cereal delights

lest you think this
just one more
me-centric rants,
let us recall this prayer,
is his very own,
prayer of gratitude

woman's head
rests on my chest,
her blonde highlights,
highlight our bed
and our
life

take and tuck her tresses
from eyes and forehead,
gentle them into place,
behind her ear,
and my hand journeys on
to the skin,
flesh of her backbone,
where my fingers
spread wide,
five messengers unique,
advising all of the 120 provinces of her
heart, mind, soul and body,
she is my beloved,
and I pray,
I am hers

learning still to
live with my means,
such as they are,
sometime mean,
sometimes extraordinaire

even this skill,
to express

is a gratitude
that though
comes and goes
like summer breezes
that as now we pray,
cools my AM coffee
while studying the
patterned mystery
of the bay's
Ave Maria waves
from that
dock-by-his-name

where my heart, mind, soul
drink wet inspiration
from the still-oak-tree'd-strong-surfaced waters,
the blue glue of
our common delighted,
uncommon existence

this skill,
at this moment mine,
to share and
not to keep,
for have I not,
been blessed,
by comrades-in-arms
that kneel beside me,
asking, imploring
to be stronger yet,
for their sakes,
for them!
I pray for
best they-can-muster
sustenance of peace
of heart, mind, soul
and body

here now,
my shills,
my failing skills
cannot help express
in new ways,
a gratitude
that has a shapeless shape,
no measurement app enabled
for their comfort,
our comfort,
best grasped as
an unbounded divinity,
how so I wish I could pray for them better

focus this prayer
on the good ones,
who so greatly honor us
with a greater-than-a-creator,
gift glorious of
friendship

this walnut crack'd shell,
this container ship of
heart, mind, soul,
here there,
a few leaks sprung,
no nicotine patches
to cover

this dented car,
this dented body,
new dent every day
from only-you-know-where
still gets me there,

but
other than taking care better,
it plods along and houses
the rearrangement of this prayer's words,
and that is what is called
plenty good enough,
self-sufficient

prayers that are too long
go to the back of line,
so here we be,
but here we do not wait!

for prayers of gratitude
are instantaneous fulfilled,
and thus granted even before
they are completed

On a sheer peak of joy we meet;
Below us hums the abyss;
Death either way allures our feet
If we take one step amiss.

One moment let us drink the blue
Transcendent air together—
Then down where the same old work’s to do
In the same dull daily weather.

We may not wait . . . yet look below!
How part? On this keen ridge
But one may pass. They call you—go!
My life shall be your bridg.

She lent down beside me
And whispered my name
Told me my life
Would soon not be the same  

I stayed there till dawn
And ate up her words
That the love that I had
Is not what she deserves

And all night around us
the nightingales sang
But how can I look
When I can't understand

Her tone so sour
But words so sweet
A lot to say
is a lot to keep

And if she does love me?
Well I don't have any proof
If I look into her eyes
Maybe I'll find out the truth

The sun drips away
You hold my hand
I want you to stay
But I know you can't

We kiss one last time
And hold each other more
Here you are forever mine
Our love we can explore

Then you go and fade
I cannot bring you back
This was never made
Or ever meant to last

Big World

Our hands met in a mess of rust red. Pressing the clay into heart shapes as they reached into one and other for something to believe in. But our journey began before then, in fits and starts. In passing scenes of first act exposition. My wondering eyes and yours of gloss and experience on summer nights of velvet lines.

We would be forced together, it seems, by happenstance and wine, like a passing note on a harmonica that you hit just right for the first time. And we would become fluent in our own drunken language of 3 am metaphor and sadness.

So many times, my lips began the journey to yours before we crippled them with “what for’s”. But still we’d share winter constellations and whispers and moments so perfect. Me on my knees, drawing your portrait on the path with handfuls of sand.

Even half a world away, my drink still seemed to rearrange itself into letters spelling your name. And then you asked me.

If the world seemed smaller.

And my mind was.

And my hands followed suit.

And then my frame began it’s descent.

But my arms stayed the same length. Just long enough to hold you.

I’d written the answer on the inside of my forearms, so I could press them to your body when I held you.

And my own joy of words, that only you would understand, I scrawled on my palms to serve as affirmations to myself when I covered my eyes to see no evil. Words like:

Majestic.

Precise.

Serendipitous.

And these words sent their letters to my mouth, asserting themselves in phrases like:

It’s a big beautiful world.

It is a big beautiful world.

And still we dance around our imaginary fire of ‘not good enough for you’ like a binary star. Beautiful but incomplete.

So, I loosened my tongue with women and foresight and raced the blood from my eyes to my core and pealed back my layers, until I could find the answers written in God on the insides of your forearms.

And now I know the answer to your question about the big, beautiful world.

And I don’t mind telling you.

I.

Don’t.

Mind.

Strong, stunning woman with hands covered in soil from the roots of the world she tugs on…

It is in your stride. Leaving wakes of timelessness behind you.

You seldom see, dear one, that you are the world. Not the child. And if I ever stoop to lift you, it is only due to the mountain you’ve erected beneath me, so that I can always see you. Across any distance.

You are reserved for made up words.

The story of your life is written on pages of gold.

I breathe honestly into the wind in hopes that it will touch your face somehow far away.

Tonight, I write by moonlight. My fifth glass of port wine is by my side, turning my blood to something sweet. I have no time for less.

I would whisk you away with me, but you are where you need to be and I haven’t found that yet.

But if you ever want to go, I would take you and show you the whole strange world that I see now.

No, my heart.

The world looks bigger.

Lies pass away
Like rainless clouds.

Dishonesty is crushed
When it turns into a dictator.

These are moral values,
So pious, so perpetual!

They are the young moon,
Glittering and giving light
When the world is in darkness.