Canticle

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…

 

Severed Hope

 

 

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.

NOT FINE

Heart screams come in waves

Changing voices UN-explaining

Waiting in loud desperation

The Whole Earth Shakes

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!

 

Midas Two

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.

Midust Tears

Creepy Crawl across my heart

Burning holes

Left gold tears of fire

Sixteen

Swan like beauty, golden thin

Binging, purging

Perfection in lilac chiffon wisps

Spring Bombs

Appearing like yuletide balls

Spring bombs

Sun against lunar pull exerting

 

***

Converging in the heavens

Collecting, growing

Storm, wind, hail, destruction, sure

***

Her beauty is the moon

Always moving

Best when Easter comes early

 

 

 

A Coming Change…

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.

Unfinished Thoughts

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.