∴

there was a man
that hung on a tree
and i was the wood that held Him.

He made me thus
for both of us
and cleaved my trunk
and carved my limb.

 

what bark has a purpose
but for holding things tall?
a leaf in the spring, and a door in the fall,

and a child in winter,
who comes to us all.

 

when i wept and wept
for the ‘we’ i could not save –
for whom prayers went unanswered,
or who chose to unchange –

i threw my grain down
in protest.

 

how could i be made so cruel?
are His promises made
mine to make’a fool?

 

but He just smiled.
and assembled my rings
back in order.

and brought me to earth’s edge
where dawn and darkness border.

 

He filled the sky with roses,
and hung diamonds from the trees,

and made for me a dance floor
upon the frozen seas.

and said,

of all these gifts I give to thee,
blessed be my hanging tree.

for how else should we rise again
if to our fall we do not tend?

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

i had gone to sleep with nothing.
the hearth was hollow lead.

i ached with hunger
bending
’til i bent upon the bed.

my dreams were made of stories
of days i’d lived before;

the recollected quarry
of always wanting more.

there i tossed and twisted
’til i was tangled in the sheets

and there was no love to lift them.

and there was no kiss of peace.

 

i woke upon a sleep-walked prayer.
it issued from me, unaware:

“give me not the riches
if they cost what riches cost,

and lead me not the ‘right way’
if right ways leave me lost.

speak to me in riddles
so the answers come more plain

and like me as i’m made to like
and do not interest feign.

nor need me for those manly means
of chore and labors labored

for when i’m struck with all those stones
i’m cruel and blue as jay bird.”

⋅

it was my birthday
that day
so i thought i’d better leave;

there is a gift in all this birth
too often, unretrieved.

shall i choose to starve by ditches
where wild mushrooms grow

or wilt in cushioned corners
where apathy is sowed;

am i so frightened by the road?

God help me,
where does it go?

where does it go?

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

did you hear that sweet sound we made?

when you were laughing on a fiddle
and i delighted on a string?

when harmonicas went wailing,
and guitars strummed on, unfailing,

and all the work we worked was played.

could you sense the smile spreading,
wide and willing
in that soul, over there,

who in the corner hid?

did you wonder,
as i did,

at the unlikeliness of joy
in us all
and give thanks
as it grew
anyway?

anyway, and grew.

⋅

we separate notes
intoning,
to heaven praising,
groaning.

may all our concerts endless bring
the solace mirth found on a string.

∴

 

 

---

---

∴

we walk in sun-lit residuum of storms,
trudging in the deep drifts
and heaving happy breaths;

look how serene
hidden ditches seem.

 

the paths are creaking, clicking, poplar sticks
with plops and wounds of weighted snow.
these birds that didn’t fly,
whose being
only branches know.

 

we circle ‘round the great oak heart,
more rings outside the tree –

ripples

ripples

on the ice

how time expands from thee.

 

our trail needs turn to stay the course

and back to home we’re bound

but changed by all the tracks we’ve made

upon this squall-scarred ground.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

i am the holder of secrets,

the curator of dreams.

i am the keeper of things

where nothing outward seems.

 

i’ll dole them out slowly

when night’s drawn its length

when you cease to count on intellect

and resign your wearied strength.

 

then the furrow of your brow

will, in deep slumber, soften

and the worried, wilted spirit

will pry upon its coffin

 

lifting earth and weighted brick

that pressed upon the breast,

to rise the eyes in sanguine sight

and embark from dark and doomèd nest.

∴

 

 

---

---

∴

it is still
now.

the branches are flag poles
erecting frozen little banners,
browned and flocked
and crisp with age.

 

no bird flies.

 

the ground, especially,
is more fixed than most.

a blanket of earth-bound constellations
glitter on her skin

as the low, winter sun
catches crystals
like dumbstruck fireflies
that do not twinkle,
but illuminate
and hold.

 

even the grasses hold their breath.

 

is it over?
has the storm passed
and gone?

 

if it weren’t for all this icy, white water on the plain,
i’d swear we’re in a drought.

 

my throat is parched from praying.
my lips are cracked from wind.
my fingers have lost their feeling,

but my eyes still see.

my eyes still see still mornings
whilst my soul stands, still mourning
in the aftermath of it all.

 

ah, there:
a branch is disturbed by a breeze.
i shall smile, now
and move what blizzards petrify.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

isn’t joy such a luxury?
an indulgence to be rationed?

it is a rare little pebble
that finds its way into the shoe;
and is promptly plucked out
for fear of putting us off balance.

i fancy emotions
to be like little contracts:
they yield respective dividends.

i am angry and harvest angst.
i am sad and gather sorrow.
i am blithe and gain laughter.
i am joy and recoup mirth.

contracts care not
for the outcome,
but bear one, nonetheless.

⋅

there is a story of a saint.

she was being killed –
as saints oftentimes are –
and she began to sing.

she sang and sang until her life poured out and away
and suffused the air with joy filled notes.

even her executioner wept and smiled
from the beauty of it all.

 

i think about that sometimes,
when the dog won’t sit
or the girl is cruel
or the man is cold and hollow.

and i pour my little tunes
into dish tubs like dictums
and knead my te deums in time.

how can i keep from singing?

∴

 

 

---

---

∴

 

o, but there is…

 

there is an order

i am built for.

 

a cadence

i currently,

regimented,

clip.

 

it ticks the tempo of time

as told between my breasts

and does not whip

or castigate

when i fall

out of line

 

but simply

 

alters the choreography

and improvises the tune.

∴

 

 

---

---

∴

obedience
for obeyment’s sake
is a banana peel
that lays fruitless
against the meat.

it begs for us to slip on.

 

and rules made
to control
without reason
turn rancid
in the mouths
of those
who must chew.

they beg for us to break
or broken by, be.

 

momma always said,
“the Lord wants your heart, dear.
your heart.”

 

is it not the most human thing
to beseech allegiance
and yet none, give?

 

for protection, i’m sure.
for what it they’re wrong?
about God.
about love.
about me.
about staying.

 

is it not the most human thing
to beseech one
worthy of obeying?

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

i must have been told once
(or perhaps i assumed)
that to be an adult in this world
one must do things
like
watch the news
and worry about the economy.

 

and so i did.

 

and for a time
felt very grown up,
indeed.

 

but when i realized that the stories in the news
were the same
with different faces,
and the economy
was infinitely recessed
and always seeking growth,

i found my adult-ness
to be a thin mirage,
reflecting the ‘adults’ around me
and about my mind.

 

and i laughed out loud
at the sight of us all:

 

little children
frowning
in business suits,

certain of our prestige
and impending doom.

 

it was then
that i picked up a fiddle
and played
the sounds adults feel
when they find their child
left alone

and inappropriately dressed.

∴

 

 

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