My pen is bent to glory. I address my verses to the King.
He anointed me with grace. My pen bends to a noble theme.
Your dwelling places are lovely. Your throne is beyond our comprehension.
Truly it is God who saves me. He is my rock and my salvation.
a psalm of David…transposed…
Compliantly, urgently listening
with blind hope, ears wide open
as the sheep for the shepherd.
Waiting, searching, seaking
without forethought or line
as a prophet for the Spirit.
Wandering, thirsting, hungering
finding dry bones and spoilt manna
such the Gomorrhan I must be.
Gazing, seeing, hearing
enlightenment explodes into being
drools from darkness and shadow.
Hark the composition of my Muse!
No shepherd but serpent.
If spirit, evil.
Carefully tendering my terrible pen.
Heart screams come in waves
Changing voices UN-explaining
Waiting in loud desperation
Lift up your heads!
He comes, riding on the clouds,
Shining like the sun,
The whole earth shakes!
He is the King of Glory!
Hosanna in the highest!
Please return to me! I am transfixed and cold as stone.
Your breath upon my neck was molten honey,
Your horrible sweet strokes left me starving.
Return to me! Loose me from a Being of all eyes yet unseeing.
Your touch left me fair and golden. I am beautiful as a corpse,
As a subject for framing. I am gold as stone, a goddess in a painting.
Creepy Crawl across my heart
Left gold tears of fire
Swan like beauty, golden thin
Perfection in lilac chiffon wisps
Appearing like yuletide balls
Sun against lunar pull exerting
Converging in the heavens
Storm, wind, hail, destruction, sure
Her beauty is the moon
Best when Easter comes early
Today is still dark outside my window.
A promise of sweeping chill.
My mind and senses groan for the coming of it like the bee to the flower.
Come, Fall in all your glory!
Come with your cleansing wind!
Brush away the stickiness in my head.
The old stuffy clamminess, heat, and stuff of piled up
summer dog-days weighing me down.
Brush through my hair, my brain and soul.
Let me sprout a pair of wings perhaps, that I could dance on your breeze!
Or set me free upon the air in a huge rising balloon so as to see the entire earth.
Let me sense, touch, taste, breathe, live into the crisp sharp newness of Fall.
pen and ink on canvas-Myra
A writer’s dream, fulfilled in my very hoping,
Complete in silence, speculation, unencumbered of mind.
Ah! The mess is the latter thought.
As More of Tudor’s Court once evoking,
“Words, words, words. It is all only words.”
Less than dream, featureless, exuberantly blind.
Unfinished now, yet not for naught.