light spun

sphinx in the desert
sun on her face
illuminating her enticing russet hue
desire is the link
that brings us to this place
to learn what is known
under heavenly eyes azul

messianic voices
call to each from cavernous souls
to reach the lips of one
whose work is to extoll
the virtues of the arduous journey
to share all there is to give
and walk in reflection
of creation
that as one
may we all live

issuance

a steady breeze, cool
just off the river
after days of rain
issues out stale thoughts
regrets and feelings of surrender
and in ushers
refreshed resolve
to accept
what is
what is possible

a scent upon the wind
alerts our deepest selves
to the presence of
Grace

we pray upon
the new day

little by little
i whittle away
to pay
the debt i owe
upon this world of woe
for in the whittling
i find true joy

Sweet Girl

what sort of smile did you wear?
did you have a ribbon in your hair
when first you met over a malted
and agreed
that he'd
pick you up at six
to take a walk
along cobbled paths
rain slick
pond-side in the park
in the company of ducks and geese
and strangers
that you did not see
a prelude to a meal
a drink or two
and a rousing game of pachenko
never before had you
smoked
or stood with lips dry and parted
eyes joyous darted
to the floor, his strong hands, eyes, shoulders
his dark hair
against your cheek
his breathing in your ear
your knees so weak
you could never have imagined
that decades on...
you would wait in the car
while he limped into the pharmacy
to help your cause
your mouth locked in a grimace
so little color left in your face
the glisten in your eyes resigned
to their reddened rims
bags rest atop your sallow cheeks
your back stooped in perpetual decline
feet sore
and ankles swollen
kept warm
with a shawl woven
at his bequest
upon the occasion of your fortieth

his love never more true
than now
never
before of greater depth
he sees you still
in the bloom
of his blossoming love
his
Sweet
Girl

days of grace
and ones of toil
days of joy
and of consequence uncoil
more quickly than a striking snake
to bite one with but memories
where life once was

a walking poem

i am not proud
nor am i ashamed
i am not modest
nor am i immodest
i am of the scent of a wet dog
i am of the clip-clop of a broken sandal
upon the path
i am of the trees
arching high above the trail
and of the fallen leaves
which lay spent at its sides
my sister scampers underfoot
while brother spins his world
amid the limbs overhead
my father sits, belly to ground
waiting on the hum
of the beginnings
and of the ends
my mother is all around

after each meal service

i wash dishes
for an hour, more or less,
i do not mind the dishes
they must be washed
this occupies the body
yet my mind is free
to wander and hold conversations
while my hands hold the dishes

i pray
for humility and patience
while washing dishes
for hours each week

my mind writes poetry
and stories and turns of phrase
while my hands wash ceramic

the poems wash my heart
as they occupy my soul
while soap and scrubber
occupy my hands

it is not unusual
to drop a dish
sometimes they break
while others clatter and spin to rest
either way
i laugh at my carelessness