---

∴

 

we all make messes.

 

friends are such

that help you

arrange them

in useful patterns.

 

true loves

behold

beauty

in them.

∴

 

 

 

---

 

---

∴

a friend reminded me
that i had left something behind
when i moved –

for i always keep moving.

 

so in a dream,
i went back to my vacant
house in the sky,

delivered via pegasus back
and wearing slickers,
and galoshes,
what with all the wetness from clouds.

 

to the stairs inside
did i go seeking –
for i knew where the something was left –
and opened the cubby
that hid neath the stairs
like a clandestine pocket
in your grandmother’s robe.

 

there was a rack of shoes.

how many,
many
shoes.
how many,
many
roads to walk them in.

 

in the clog to the center
was a yellowed old note
rolled up like a hollow cigar,

but it loosed like a lock of let down hair
and fell in my hand with such silk.

 

“I Love”

 

it read.

that’s all it said.

 

and i left that house,
smiling
wide.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

when a heart comes home
there is cause for much celebration,
for a heart’s journey
is always long
and often treacherous.

it’s true
that hearts must leave
from time to time,
else they grow stale
in their chambers,

but it is a dangerous trek
in a world so wild
and full

of things to break it

and things to fill it.

·

so if a heart makes it home,

wiser than when it left
and heartier for it’s travels,

one should dance
with abandon,
and drink
the best year in the house
with food
that’s even better,
and sing songs
to the children
who are watching,

and if the wild world scoffs,
do not pay them mind,

for no fool
can be made of you
whose heart,
once missing,

came home.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

so the people
departed and walked down the trail,
full-bellied and spent
by my whiskey and ale

with a song that lingers
way out on the hill,
while a faint whistle flutters
it’s last cut an’ trill.

stand i in the doorway
to fill in the space
where tomorrow looked back
on yesterday’s face.

in a year, they’ll return
with an older self made
with new fortunes earned
and new debts to be paid.

but now –
the day after –
is soundless and solemn.

the fiddles have ceased
and the fires have fallen.

we hinge up the hope chest;
an’ let missing begin,
for the roads we’ve not sauntered
and the homes we’ve not been.

 

come you,
and again

that next year might come faster.

and thus do i close
the sweetest day after.

∴

 

 

---

---

∴

a hundred-eighty weavers
stood proud up on stools
before the shedding began.

the craftsman left home
in pursuit of the wealth
that promised the Life
and sure made the Man.

“when a fortune i find,
i’ll buy me a house
for my love and for my littles

this twine will not do.
t’will not pay the tithe.
t’will bind me in time
an’ starve the plate of her victuals.”

so on and down
the road he went,
his pockets wide to fill,

an’ the heddles fell suddenly silent,
and the loom, abruptly went still.

one seventy-nine
were swept up to cities
where clocks kept the time
in stead of the reed.

where soft dinner napkins
laid neat upon laps
and covered the holes
that grew in the tweed.

but one weaver left
went toiling on
on the northern most end of the world

and answered each shed
with a food made of threads
to keep his own mighty fabric
from comin’ unfurled.

but it wasn’t the clicking
of rapier crossing
that filled the mind of the man;

for questions did stir
like un-wefted soldiers in waiting,

unanswered
though stretched ‘cross the span:

what builds of a builders’ trade?

what’s left of all
that the maker has made?

 

“click!”

called the pirn,

“no answer, good man,
shall be given to thee,
but carry on and carry on,
for warriors true are carried on me.”

so straight went the warp
‘fore the weft did fall,

and on went the Weaver
of Donegal.

∴

 

 

---

 

 

Try as I might, I could not find a picture of an Irish Weaver. So please, travelers abroad, send me a photo of an artisan weaver at his task! For now, this lovely pic of Donegal will have to do…

---

∴

she would knock on his door at midday
and ring the bell till he answered,
and say,

“come out, please, to play.”

 

i’m sure his mother objected:
who would have preferred him
to join a club
like the scouts
or awanas
and find boys his age.

but as that would be impolite
to suggest,
she acquiesced to his parting
and loosed the boy from his cage.

 

the girl was ruddy and wild
with red curls, exploding,
she made a most precocious child
whose wisdom exceeded
the depth of her heel
and whose thinness of skin
taught her how to not feel;

to bandage her knees with prayers,
barely whispered

and salve-soothe the still-working fingers,
though blistered.

 

“come.

to the clubhouse.

our battle awaits.

i’ve put posies in our pockets

and lavender at the gates.

can you hear

the drumming

within?”

 

they donned dishcloths for capes
and dandelion garlands
and foraged for swords in the brush
while the world went before them
in a growing-up rush.

 

i wonder sometimes,
if it was dragons they slayed
or if they fought ‘gainst the people
they were meant to be made.

 

they were good fights.
that lasted through dusk.
till they traced back to doorsteps,
through cornstalks and husks.

·

he moved away, that boy.
with his mother,
they went.

to be ‘round goodlier neighbors
as i understand.

but you could still catch him –
long since made a man –

day dreaming of the un-hurdled races he ran
with fiery, frizzy-haired wisps from the woods

who are rumored to still sleep
in the empty thresholds of doors

and where good friends

once stood.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

let the scavenger

have his meats

from limbs i left untended

but stay the teeth

from tender heart

whose home in cages keeps.

 

 

this organ is protected.

∴

 

 

---

---

 

∴

it is not my words that fail me

but the wellspring

wherefrom they rise.

 

alas

by all this cold

the water chilling settles still;

i have no stream to spill.

 

o love, do not harden

what soft must stay.

 

as earth untilled is brick.

 

as water shaped and frozen falls

in droplets dripped

on time’s firm tick.

 

and then,

is gone,

away.

 

so stir.

please

stir

please

stir.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

wander, woman,
wander on
this world won’t bear a home,

though camps we make
and tables set
our spirits ceaseless roam.

the cradles break
like spring sealed earth
we gentle sprouts, disrupt

and pack our lunches
hastily
from emptied tables
and cisterns supped.

 

see mothers how we wander on
unlearnèd from your lead.

 

see fathers how we dresses don
in search of fathers’ seed.

 

when husbands fathers soon become
a child we’re remade,

but children grown
though crookedly,
cannot be children stayed.

 

o help the homes
with dreams we built

for waking up

we dreamers wilt,

 

parched by barren grounds
of duty and deep doctrine,
by roles that we’re kept locked in

in plays without a curtain.

we’re more than this…                    i’m certain.

 

from every pore,
unlock the doors,
turn cover on your tome.

wander woman,
wander on,

this world won’t bear a home.

∴

 

 

 

---

 

---

∴

what is in me
left to explore?

i have put her away that is vast.

for expanses need filling
and she was too wide
and wanted too much of the world.

 

where do you keep
such a space,
but in space,
so i placed her amongst the stars.

 

at least now,
when i stand with my feet –
good soldiers and
firm on the ground –
untoppled again
and proud,

i can look up and remember
the wonder of how wide she was
and what possibility
she saw
in the wilderness of hearts.

 

i can look up
when i want to –
when i want to feel light –
and look down
when burdens of hope
become heavy.

∴

 

 

 

---