From The Field

You drew me forth,
planted me,
then moved on
to another planet,
another row,
one in a field of red tulips
offered to the sky.

I found a rhythm in your words,
Lord of King James,
rhythm in the tide of tears
that rises from earth deep
and spills,
reckless rises fragrant golden oil
and red squandered blood
I swing in a censor
among singing stars.

Layers

He worked with his hands
on leather for boots
with his hands cut the leather,
glued, sewed, glued and trimmed,
and sewed again,

layers laid down
among deep shadows,
building and rebuilding,
sculpting softly, shaping an artifact
to human need,
A piece of entire human history,

layers poured and dried,
layers of culture
color and texture
stucco, gesso, stone wall plastered,
painted and cracked,
varnished and dripped
over every generation;

fires and wars,
dictatorships, cartels
clearing the rainforest,
loosening tethered souls
of sacrificed children, animals,

layers of caked blood, dried,
sanded with pumice,
clear varnished, watercolored,
crayoned and penciled,
framed, burned, pounded
with a hammer, eaten by beetles
to beaten drums of every age,
reclaimed by jungle whose vines
hold men by the ankles until they cry;

and so it was, overgrown in deep coastal forest,
buried below towering cedars,
he stumbled upon the side of an ancient building
oiled, layered, soaked in centuries almost black
hardwood with a gothic stain-glass window

some faithful one kept a candle
burning where no one but God could know,
glinting rich greens, yellows, blues and reds,
depicting some such pre-historic tale
as only angels tell--

he had met the candle lighter before,
small, her white hair tied in a bun.

It was Christmas eve along the Alaskan Highway
deserted for the holiday at thirty below,
his jeep running out of fuel,
every station closed,
every door barred and locked against him.

Death grinning in the back seat
wearing a festive holly wreath.

When he could go no further,
he pulled into a locked up station, his last hope,
and went for a desperate walk,
the layers of his life grown thin and brittle.

his jacket barely enough,
Not a window showed a light,
the village deserted,
gone to reunions, choir fests,
the sunny warm hearths of relatives,

when he came upon a tiny church,
a light burning, the door unlocked,
there alone in silence
on her knees with her back to the door,
one kneeled devoutly in prayer,
nor did she start at his approach.

she fed him, filled his jeep with gas,
saw him on his way;

thus the layers were applied, the collage
pasted. plastered, a choir softly singing,
filling the gaps, cracks between the planets
between the days making decisions,
gingerly driving upon parallel logs
spanning a broken ice bridge
crossing the Graham River
that midnight Christmas eve,

and the cloud of witnesses
misting up, another year
from another river
at dawn among summer evergreens,
singing at dusk, harmonica melodies rising,
falling, quiet winds.

Journey Prayer

　
　
we have come so far
from anger and rebellion
to this candle lit parchment
in a dusty document library
mysterious with words like "chastity", "modesty",
and "fidelity".

we have walked in your city,
with its leaded stain glass windows,
through quaint old landscape tapestries,
into green farm lands,
cottage clustered villages,
your forgotten kingdom.

Simply kindle in us again
the creative fire of desire and vision,
collecting gifts we find to give,
scribbled scenes,
pages of torn poetry,
kingdom fragments

where you lift the fallen,
rejuvenate the broken,
make the shattered vessel
whole again.

trails of fallen leaves
we follow to the ampitheatre
where hope sings.
　
　

Long Winter

It is spring, and the snow falls,
like it has fallen every day since November.

I eat my gruel cooked over a wood fire.

Every day I split the wood.

Where is my shirt of camel's hair,
the ancient beads I tell?

But I am comfortable and warm,
writing on my computer
made of worried stone.

The sun is filtered
through frozen clouds.

Above them,
Solar flares send killing rays
they say, and solar storms
are flaring now.

Oil fields burn with back smoke.

Tomahawk missiles whistle like arrows,
the earth quakes,
for a moment, the sea
casually abandons restraint,
washes our cities away.

The overcast and falling snow
are my armor.

My prayers to you
slice right through them.

From Under The Altar

 When all is said and done

at the end where the circle

begins again,

the buying and the selling,

the marrying and giving in marriage,

as in the days of Noah

before the flood,

when all is said and done,

and the Book Of Meanings

mighty tome be closed again,

will there be anyone looking,

expecting, watching, for

another door to open,

the clouds and sky to part

like the sea before Moses,

Will anyone not sating mindless

appetite, or lost in violence of blood,

look skyward with longing and understanding

and child-like trust,

ready to meet the master, Holy One,

on your return?

Or will you only find

a dead world to burn?

Fire rises from the coals

this frozen day,

circles licking round my fresh log,

tasting it,

then hungrily devours.

Who can tame this lust?

Yet the conflagration of each feeding

warms my hearth for hours.

How long, O Lord?

My love seeks living trees to redeem

and nurture,

summer voices sing to.

Mortally Wounded

Pick carefully your battles,
husband your strength,
your culture could drag on
another forty years.

Mark the tree
you bleeding lie beneath
beside your love--
has stood unmoving there
two thousand rings.

Old Wind breathes into once again
its dancing summer leaves;
in His ancient foreign tongue
exhaling sings
secret syllable of breath
that second Adam raised
was it yesterday
from death of death.

Bread

　
Whatever you have done,
wherever you may go,
your life takes you,
from nights in stone church ruins
by moonlight,
to afternoons wrestling loneliness
in a curtained room,

take from me the best I have to share,
elements of Easter morning;
a loaf of bread,
a cup of wine,
an invitation to prayer,
a sinuous climbing vine
encircling a slender tree,

As I prayed fervently, writing this to you,
sitting by the river,
suddenly a forest patriarch
nearby, as if pushed by a giant hand,
cracked powerfully and fell,

a giant tree
shaking the earth--
amazed, i saw it fall, felt it,
not a breath of wind,
I heard in the cracking roar,
it was rotten to the core;

without warning, falling, all the
kingdoms of this world;

yet stands the best I have to share,
promises in him of bread and wine and life;

in all the dark chaos coming,
you shall be another kind of tree,
planted by rivers of water;
bearing fruit in your season,
your leaf shall not wither.
Receive this blessing
from one who blesses me.
　

The Story of Ms Sally Doe

She bought her lotioned perfume
with the proceeds of sin,
bought it for herself,
a little luxury, a little something
in an alabaster box
for the wizened days that come.

the men paid, some dearly,
and she provided for herself
a little bit of her dream,
compensation for the shame,
the shame.

But then he came,
the dream in person,
the flesh, focused, restated,
the dream made holy even,
the dream whose fulfillment
now she knew, seeing it,
she could never possess by seduction
or put in an alabaster box.

He was a glory she had given herself to follow
before she had met him,
a breaking revelation pouring out of herself,
the broken stone leaking costly perfume
over him,
suddenly knowing she had sinned,
fallen far short,
and what it was, a breaking,
sinned against herself, her vision,
against the whole world.

She washed his feet with her tears,
with her perfume,
she knew her only hope,
his foregiveness;

and in front of all the men,
without shame,
he understood,
simply forgave.

In front of all the men,
without shame,
she understood,
was born again.
　

Almost Fundless

Bus travelers in winter
are made to feel
like second class citizens
as they are locked out of the depot
at thirty below
between departures,
made to wander about
the frozen city
while hauling bags and sick kids
looking for a warm lobby
to invade since almost fundless,
In them one could see the holy family
looking for a stable.
　
I find a classy coffee shop,
over warm coffee and cake--
what is this feeling,
almost of guilt--
I write to you
from between worlds.

Teach Us To Number Our Days

The sun was golden and rising,
the gardens reverent in morning green,
draped in long shadows damp with dew,
the air was bowed and still,
and I found you in the expectant mausoleum,
templed of marble in creams and browns,
carved and ancient, a place for worship
and old sorrow,
a place patiently created for the one,
a traveler who might come to receive
wisdom freely given,
from an alms box open
to the reaching tattered soul.

I did not pass through,
I never left,
did not return to the old,
but moved in and began
to spend my days and nights
with you in your music
without any pounding beat,
that never pauses
even to breathe.