I wear a torn place on my sleeve

Behold, I will do something new,
  Now it will spring forth;
  Will you not be aware of it?
  I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
  Rivers in the desert.

Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation...

I wear a torn place on my sleeve.
It isn't as simple as that.

I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness.

Even so, it is well with my soul.

Behold, a new thing comes like a dove.

The nails in the door glimmer with light and my head is light.

I stop.

I start.

I am  back to fishing. Fishing to forget.

I have bit my nails to the quick.

He says to be a shepherd.

I will feed his sheep forever.

Then you do not hate me?

Let us love and sing and wonder.

I grow excited again.  

There is  no because. 

Just a go.

a do.

a believe.

a love.

Yes, I am excited.

The nails drop to the ground.

Surely this man was the son of God!

And the rain begins.

I do not care what the gardener has to say.

I am weeping. And I do not wish to be told to go.

He is speaking and I do not want to listen.

Why? Because they have taken my Lord from me. 

There are lilies and sand.

I loved him. 

He says my name. 

I am altogether with him and my hands find his, the places the nails pierced

He says My God and Your God.

Never again will demons torment me.

Like a lamb

He was silent

Like a child

He did not weep

I am ashamed

I nail the door shut

I weep for him and 

wash my hands

Tell me you love me

Take me back to the start

It's not as simple as that.

You're a bad person.

You deserve your lot.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you

rrrip

TODAY YOU WILL BE WITH ME IN PARADISE

amen and amen

i have calmed and quieted my soul

indeed, this is a new thing

The nails fall broken

Love is always a new thing.

We do not understand.

So

show

us

your

grace

We believe

in the name of Love

our Father 

who art in heaven

We believe

in It is finished

in the water

and the blood

We believe in Joseph's wasted tomb

We believe in John's death

We believe in Peter's life

We believe in Mary's disgrace

And Pontius Pilate's downfall

We believe in the faith of a thief

Our sleeves are torn

Our hearts are whole

It is as simple as that.

(Isaiah 43:19, Anais Nin's Henry and June, and W.S. Merwin's The Nails provide the epigraph.)

I wear a torn place on my sleeve || A thief

Behold, I will do something new,
  Now it will spring forth;
  Will you not be aware of it?
  I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
  Rivers in the desert.

Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation...

I wear a torn place on my sleeve.
It isn't as simple as that.

A thief

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

blood

in

my

mouth

in my hands

nails

in my hands

darkpainbloodblackingoutheartbeat

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

i am not afraid to die

just let me die now

throw me in an unmarked grave like the rest

rest

i need rest

no one will remember my name

to be honest, i'm glad. i'm not a good person

blacking out again

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

memory and other things i don't need

sound and other things i don't want

beside me another forgotten

forgetful

what am i called again?

a thief?

a murderer?

a man?

there's another one beside me, wetting

me with his

black black black no air

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

words

words

i have no use for words

why are you speaking

you foolish

what do they call you?

i don't even remember my name

let alone who you are

ogodogodogod letmedienowpleaseletmedie

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

you are a fool

my brother

you are a fool

do you remember what you did to end up here?

i don't.

yes i do.

i can see the faces

don't you remember too, my brother?

and the one

the one in the center center center i can't

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

i ask nothing of you

i have nothing i can ask you for

you who chose this

bloodbreathsourwineburningbloodbloodblood

i did not choose it

i do not regret it

what else could have been done me?

i would bow before you

but all i can do is struggle against these

nailsnailsnails

to say

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

o LORD

remember me

when YOU

enter

YOUR

KINGDOM

for i will never see you again

but you will judge my soul

stretching up trying to

breatheagainstnails

will i ever

see

you

again

.
.
.

                       out




Paradise finds its existence.
(to be continued)

(Isaiah 43:19, Anais Nin's Henry and June, and W.S. Merwin's The Nails provide the epigraph.)

I wear a torn place on my sleeve || Pontius

Behold, I will do something new,
  Now it will spring forth;
  Will you not be aware of it?
  I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
  Rivers in the desert.

Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation...

I wear a torn place on my sleeve.
It isn't as simple as that.

Pontius

The violins are a sweet song, and I like them much better than the cries of the dying and the ugly sound of a mob.

I like to think of myself as a gentleman. I'm not a bad man, not at all. I pay my taxes. Have a pleasant wife and a decent family. I do my job without deviation or bribery. I'm a servant of the people. Everything a governor should be. I'm not corrupt, not violent, just a genuinely good person.

So why do I sit here, cleaning blood out of my nails and pretending I can't see the way my hands are shaking?

My hands are clean. I have washed them many times.

But I can't escape the smell of blood. It's in my hair, in my hands, in the throats of the natives as they shout for it in the veins of the man who I am not responsible for, the one whose blood is running in rivers in Jerusalem.

He is not my responsibility. He is not my fault.

I stand up, thinking about going home. It's late, I think. My wife will be waiting up for me. It's long overdue for me to be headed home. And then I sit back down, feeling the olive trees around me and the weight of the world tipping dangerously. No. I can't go home. Not like this.

All of them shouted my name. Coupled it to things that I was afraid of. They say they know what they are doing.

No one knows the price of blood on your hands.

I don't allow myself to think about the one they call the king of the Jews.

He is not my responsibility.

If they had not brought up Caesar -

But they did. It doesn't really matter - I straighten and run my hands over the nails in the gate - I am a servant of the people. I will do as they ask.

My stomach churns. Somewhere, a murderer is laughing at his good fortune and getting drunk in celebration. Not that far away - I tell myself I can not hear the screams and smell the blood - there is a man on a hill who is innocent. I feel sick.

He is not my fault.

I never could get the hang of Passover. So  many Jews. Underfoot. Smelling of religion and subversiveness and mumbling frustration. I thought at first he was one of them. Just another Zealot calling for Roman blood.

He calls for his own blood.

He is innocent. I can not get past that.

I am all that a governor should be. I listened to my people.

So why do I stand, scrubbing at my hands as if they will never truly be clean, which, I think, they never will be?

Strange. I wash my hands and feel more dirty than before.

My wife has been crying her eyes out. She will say she knew it. She did. She was right.

No! I did what was right!

I can not get him out of my head. The way his tears were blood and his blood was water and the water that pours from the fountain is all blood too. I tell myself he is a criminal. I tell myself that the Jews want it this way. I tell myself that the lash in my hand was the scourge of justice.

I ignore the women - I refuse to give them names - who loved him most. His followers, who, with inked in lines on their bitter faces and frightened chewing-of-lips, cried their quiet tears.

The man they call the king called this love.

Love! Is this what you meant, you ignorant prophet?

Why can't I stop thinking of him? This is not the first death sentence I've given.

My stomach turns again.

He is not my responsibility. He is not my fault.

I wash my hands of you, you foolish martyr!

I look at my reddened nails and my heart seizes.

I will never be rid of him.

I know this now.

He will never really leave any of us, will he?

His silence is haunting. As deep as the ocean. Mysterious as death.

Or mysterious as love. I can not reconcile what I know and what the king said.

I feel the tug of life and of love in my stomach.

My hands shake.

He is not my responsibility.

He is

not

my

fault.



Love is irreconcilable.
(to be continued)

(Isaiah 43:19, Anais Nin's Henry and June, and W.S. Merwin's The Nails provide the epigraph.)

I wear a torn place on my sleeve || Mary

Behold, I will do something new,
  Now it will spring forth;
  Will you not be aware of it?
  I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
  Rivers in the desert.

Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation...

I wear a torn place on my sleeve.
It isn't as simple as that.

Mary

My mouth tastes as bitter as nails. I could swear that when I saw his blood, it was mine too. My skin all over hurts. I'm quivering. I vomit up fear and shake more.

This is no place for a lady.

I am no lady, though, everyone knows that.

I can't stay here.

I run.

Until my feet are sore and bleeding and I'm beneath a palm tree somewhere far away and I don't really care what they think of me because, really, did they expect me to watch him die?

I know it shouldn't smell like blood here. Why does it?

I'm still shaking.

He won't die. He can't. He's like Elijah, my Lord. He is like Enoch. He will be taken to heaven in glory, I tell myself. But I can't shake the image of him, if indeed that was him, covered in blood and flayed skin, holding his insides in and carrying the burden of it all on his shoulders. Nails all in him.

He did warn us, I think. But never like this. Never did I picture it going like this.

My whole life is wrapped up in him. I don't know what I'd do without him.

It's with a sinking feeling that I gag and ask myself what this means. I just really don't know. I don't know anyone like him, my Lord.

What is really a marvel is the fact that it's been just a few years. I can still remember the days before my Lord. I envy, to think of it, the girls who will come after me and know him forever. Or something like forever. He's gone now, I try to tell myself.

The smell of sulfur always and the momentary appeasement of seven inner demons brought about by doing what they wanted, all the while sleeping in trees and by rocks and in homes I did not know. Blankly, I think that I was taken advantage of a lot, by the men and by the demons, but I really don't think I was. I invited it. I wanted it. But once it happened, I really wanted to take it all back.

He didn't mind the way I screamed. The thing I had become. I am not yet at a place where I can think about the seven demons and the way I was without crying. Maybe I never will.

Oh, who cares. Today I have a right to cry.

I have cried a lot in the past week. I think usually I'd be ashamed of this. But I've known what the others haven't, that this Passover is his death wish. I don't know what in me knew, but I've been mourning his death for days. Only now, when he is actually - probably, I say, not actually but probably - dead I can't accept it.

Maybe this is why I anointed him for burial on Sunday. I couldn't have done it today.

There's a nail on the tree trunk sticking out and my hand catches on it and bleeds.

I'm all alone now. I smell sulfur once again and I start to shake. I was alone before. I can do it again.

No. I really can't.

Anyone else, I'd say I'd fallen in love. But I know that's not what it is.

Is it fear that he's gone?

I watch the blood pool in my hand.

I don't know what love is.

I've had so many men in my life. It would be easy to write this one off as a particularly bad choice. Sorry, everyone, I picked a crazy blasphemer. Oops.

But lies taste like sulfur and I can't abide sulfur.

I gag.

I don't know how to love him.

Blood and dirt and vomit.

That's just it, isn't it? I do know what love is. It's him. But it is new. Newer than the blood sun rising up.

God! Give me back the demons and let him go!

I don't know

how

help

me

I've fallen

and

I

can't

find

my

way

back

he's a man, right?




There's more to him.
(to be continued)

(Isaiah 43:19, Anais Nin's Henry and June, and W.S. Merwin's The Nails provide the epigraph.)

I pour the questions down the drain [villanelle]

He says, never will I see the snow

He says, I fear not at all the rain

He says, I will not  hide my heart below

She, with burning eyes, will slow

The burdened virtuoso refrain

And says, In springtime, we will know

His scars, as bright as stars aglow,

Mourning, fall upon her face in pain

He says, I will not hide my heart below

The spring must come eternal slow

For she and him recall so plain 

And says, in springtime we will know

The blood is rain to make them grow

The blood runs off against the grain

He says, I will not hide my heart below

He says, I hope for the answers to be no

She says, I pour the questions down the drain

He says, I will not hide my heart below

And says, In springtime, we will know

Pinkie Promise

The Boy's eyes are grey. Did they used to be grey? Suddenly it's all-important to the Girl - were his eyes grey or is that something that changed in the ages apart?

He blinks with that steadily unfocused rhythm and rubs his eyes. The Girl watches him, with her hands caught up in the softness of her skirt. They weren't grey before. She remembers now. They were green.

"I missed you." She says to the now grey-eyed Boy who is still glaring off into the middle distance, not seeing her, not seeing their house or the little garden she made while he was away or the small dancing hills out past. His eyes are a hundred thousand miles away in a dug trench.

See, everything's changed and everything's died. The Boy's died. Why she bothers to come and talk to him every day, why she says those silly stupid sweet things like I-missed-you and I'm-happy-to-see-you and I'm-here-for-you escapes her. Her Boy is gone. Maybe his Girl is gone too. One never can tell.

He isn't listening even now. There's anger in his jaw. Her Boy is never angry, he wasn't before, before the trenches and the helmets and the rickety cots.

"If you'll be the Fairy Queen, I'll be the Fairy King." He said. They're children, winged by their imaginations and dressed in pearls and mermaid laughter. His little round face pokes out from under the bedsheet tent they've made. "Here. I'll make you a daisy crown." His little thick fingers twist a rope out of the air and add daisies made from his mind and places it on the Girl's head. His green eyes widen. "You look beautiful, Queen Fairy. There is magic in us tonight" 

She's overcome with a sudden wave of missing. Loss and grief, not because he's dead, but because he's gone. Her Boy is gone. Her Boy, with his laughter and his kindness and his long fingers clasping her around her back when they hug hello - that Boy is gone and the big bad wolf has stolen his body to be given to hold a cruel man.

She doesn't want to believe her Boy isn't in there somewhere. She takes his hands.

"Must you go, Boy?" She said. They're in a tent again, but this time it's a white gazebo tent, with warm summer air all in her hair and his green eyes. The grass beneath them as they sit smells of apples and earth. They're leaning against each other in that way that couples do, and her veil gets tangled up in his bow tie. "I know what happens to people who go away to war."
"All is war, Girl." he says gravely. "We are always at war. I just have to leave home to fight my monsters."
"They'll steal your soul, and then I'll never see you again." She confesses her fear.
"I will never leave you alone. You won't let me. And I won't let you. Pinkie promise, right?" They hook pinkies and sit in the grass with their pinkies hooked. "We belong together, you and me, Girl. We're the Fairy King and Queen. That's the magic. And nothing can change that."

Boy! Why did we grow up? Why did we leave behind the green earth to fight?

He did come home to her, too many moments later. She greeted him at the door, her green eyes all full of magic and delight. Her white veil catches on his medal of honor but not on his eyes. That's when she first sees his grey eyes and the pinched up way his lips are brought together. He doesn't see her. He's seeing the fighting. The death. The pain. There's no more mermaid laughter in him. 
He is not her Fairy King any longer. He is a soldier, and he has forgotten the magic. 

Boy, can you hear me?

It's been something like a hundred years of this, Girl saying stupid lovey things to Boy, wishing and waiting, while his mind does marching drills in his nightmares. It's hopeless, but I think the moment she acknowledges that, all the magic will fall apart and, like the Boy had said, all will be war.

The Girl's eyes are dark with tears. This is why she feared growing up, why she feared letting the Boy go away. She closes her eyes and wishes she was a little girl again playing fairies in the sheet tent. But of course she's not. She's all grown up and she's almost out of magic too.

Her face is soft when she looks at the Boy. For the first time, she realizes how young he looks when he is afraid. Poor little thing. Trapped in a grown up nightmare all alone. Her breath hitches and she stretches out her fingers, all worn and thin now.

"I never break a pinkie promise." She says softly, and her voice catches. She hooks her pinkie into his and shuts her eyes.

Maybe there is magic in them yet.

Maybe magic is just another word for love.

Maybe the big bad wolf can't devour someone who gives everything in a pinkie promise.

Bad dreams are no match for magic fairy kings and queens.

The Boy's and Girl's eyes meet, and it is green.

So the Boy was right after all. All is war, because we all want to stay children forever, but the world demands we all grow up. All is war, because the world wants to suck the  magic out of our eyes and make us as grey as sand. All is war, because love is always worth fighting for, living for, dying for, saying silly things for, and promising far too much for. All is war, but we will win it. Green will always  eat away the grey.

Pinkie promise.

like a girl in a red cloak

you have turned my mourning into dancing

and i left my sackcloth in the river

because i would rather wear a ballet slipper than 

have ash on my forehead

and (ladies and gentlemen, step right up!)

i will not soil my hope with mourning

i see light

and my head is killing me

because the light will burn away

all the darkness in my eyes and wash the gas mask

from my mouth

i will dress myself in ballet slippers

and my heart will be more filled with joy

(the funny thing is, i am not really happy

sort of happy

but i am, like a girl in a red cloak, not afraid of the darkness

for i will hug the wolves and throw down my heart to 

die to live)

because that is joy

i will not fear

i would rather dance

than twirl away my responsibilities

and forget the wolves in sadness

and draw wet sackcloth in my mind

Do not believe your heart
(It lies)
Trust not your eyes
(For you, sweet child, are blind)
The world crumbles like stale bread
And you are made of dust
Not wisdom
So do not weep
And do not mourn
Though the hearse drives over your boots
And your lover spits acid at you, saying,
You never loved me and I hate you for your falsehood
You must smile and soldier
You must be quite all right
Though everything be wrong and you
Forget everything in tears
Two things you can believe
The silent stars
And Me.

Nobody's Eye

I was born like a Cyclops
My eye, overlarge and weepy,
focuses and rolls
and if I can't remember where
to look too like a snake
I when I forget change from
Polyphemus to Medusa
and my one eye will burn to stone
And my hair will poison
you with its fragrance
Because I'm Nobody and Nobody
remembers where the siren's song leads
Maybe the man who built the dove's boat
He was so full of faith and salt
So by faith and salt and rainbows and a broken mirror
My one eye opens
And the serpents vomit up their applesauce
And I see a great laughing
Skyful star
And all of a sudden
I'm very meek weak hopeful
That my eye will never open again
And my heart will be all more like a
Nobody

The Wedding Dancer

I remember him well
The shepherd with the lute
Such a sweet boy
Such a sweet, sweet sad boy
I loved him with every part of my voice
I never did know her name,
The fanged little wolf that stole
his heart, which I'd always thought
would be forever free.
Maybe I love him still.
I'll dance at his wedding, forgetting.

I remember her too
She was a small sparrow
One wing was clipped military short
She perched on my shoulder
She was my song and my sighing
I loved her more than anyone
She was my child
He loved her too, with his overalls
His overlarge hat
His heart wide open so
I could see he loved her
He loved her best, the sparrow
And I was glad to give her away
But how I miss her
I loved her too, thought
Maybe more purely than the other
It's okay.
I'll dance the Lindy Hop at her wedding
In my red shoes.

He's not a memory yet
The White Knight, I loved him too
My poor heart could never quite
But that's not important
The White Knight came green
and wounded and I loved him from the beginning
He was as beautiful as a Mid-Atlantic
Snowstorm. His sword
Was rusty but his pipes were fresh.
I love him still.
I've always known about her, too.
As long as I've known him,
I've known the White Knight
was meant for a princess
not a Lady of the Lake
or dancer
I've always loved you for someone else
And that's okay.
I always will.
That's why I'm the Lady of the Lake.
I love you, I
Promise I do.
And, I am not so broken, you know
I will dance at your wedding.

Dear Bathsheba [[remorse and resurrection]]

...Oh, beloved Bathsheba. Do not leave me here, alone with the moon. I love you, my dear, oh, I love you...

God, how I miss you. 

I'm very alone here, Abba. When I saw her bathing on the roof, I loved her. She loved me, too, God, I know she did. We were beautiful together, admit it. She was sad and she was lonely, and I was scared and I was misunderstood. I was so afraid to lose her.  You've taken me away so many times from the ones I love. I was afraid you would do it again, God, that once again, you'd cast me away from the ones I love. I loved them, God. I promise I did. 

I think that was why I snatched her up the way I did, I just didn't want to lose her, the way I lost all the others I loved most. I know, I know, it was wrong of me to be so afraid.

I wasn't trying to hurt her, the pretty, weeping girl that night. I wasn't trying to hurt you either, I swear it. Oh, how I didn't want to give her up. I miss her, my beloved Bathsheba. It wasn't her fault, of course, the dark way I loved her, the way my love turned to murder.

Oh, God, I can't even think about that. My heart will break all over again and I think I had just salvaged enough of it to say I'm sorry. I am. I'm so so sorry.

How you must despise me. My family does. My whole kingdom does. I despise myself, most of all my bitter-stained heart. 

I'm alone with the moon again. I'm a mass of contradictions, you know - the king after God's heart and the one who killed for a bitter love.

Give me my harp, my dear, I need to sing a short song. Or maybe it will be a long one.

You're my beloved now, the real one, you who never left me alone with the outside darkness (saying I'm sorry and then trying to forget over and over). You've kept my hands gathered, and for the last time, taken hyssop and ground it into my heart, into my eyes, into my hands.

I'm aflame now, and I'm weeping and there is resurrection. My heart died when we parted, you and I, and I buried it when I said goodbye to her, but now, create in me a clean heart, a new one, O God, and resurrect - renew - a right spirit within me. Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love.

Because, I'm sorry isn't going to work when you're alone with the moon. Because, a broken and a contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.

Thanks be to God. Thanks be to God, through Jesus Christ our Lord.

The Siren

My child, now let us look at a marvel...
What a peculiar little chimaera
See her long hair as wild and dark as moss
Beloved eyes one green and one purple
She is so very small, but with
A large voice singing songs
Oh, my child, cover your ears and
stuff beeswax into them
For the little white lady
with harp-voice wings
With a green serpent wound down her waist
She's quite something
Look at her, wet smiling and air weeping
A warning, that's what we call her
Because we can not be both
Air and water
Much less an earth and a spirit
There can be no candle in the underworld
No worms in love with doves
Salt in a fresh spring
Do not marvel at me, my child
But as I change
You may love me
[that's a question]

Walk My Love

Siuil, siuil, siuil a run

Siuil go sochair agus siuil go ciuin

Siuil go doras agus ealaigh lion

Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

Walk, my love

Run, my love

I have found your heart, my love

Hold now -

Among the reeds the tusks of pigs

I'm picking up pearls thrown

[At me I'm the dirty girl

Cleaning laundry hang me up to dry]

Selling my bejeweld soul

Selling my windswept mind

Selling myself to dirty tricks

dirty work dirty men and egrets

Walk, my love

Run, my love

I have found your heart, my love

Hold now -

In the muck where algae

Is crawling up my arms

My skirt eaten by frogs swallowed

I Am Bare

My skin crawls and would you stop looking at me

[They're all dirty boys and girls

That's why they laugh at my nakedness

I'm burning put out the fire boys]

They cry laugh turn their backs

My hands grasp a sword of bronze

Walk, my love

Run, my love

I have found your heart, my love

Hold now -

Cutting away my skin

I bleed

My skin falls off

I cut further

My muscle falls away

I cut further

My bones clatter down

I cut further

Just my heart now, my love

It still beats. I am still alive.

The battle is against me

And against the frogs

[I'm a dirty heart

But I am a little fighter

I promised my children I'd never]

Walk, my love

Run, my love

I have found your heart, my love

Hold now -

Can't you see I've done this killing

For love?

Dead frogs and boneless hearts

For love

Oh failure

Sweet transparency

What was I supposed to do?

Love all over our bodies

I think I've always loved you.

Wherever I'm with you.

Walk, my love

Run, my love

I have found your heart, my love

Hold now.

White Bird

White Bird

Once upon a time, there was a little bird. All of white, she dressed herself in the morning and the songs of half-forgotten cemeteries, all crying out. She was a very young little bird, her downy feathers not quite finding flight. That didn’t stop her from believing that the sky could not contain her joy.

“I only know that when you play with Thelma, you always get the worst of it. That is why I say, be careful.” said Mother.

The little white bird flew along the lines of the trees. She crossed them like barbed wire and landed among the wild yellow lilies. Each one grasped at her with their feline paws and, among them, she knew she had a home. But the joy of the sky was still uncontainable, and something inside of her cried out that there had to be more than this. The lilies wiped their mouths with their sleeves and turned to devour another bite of her tail.

And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.
And from all across the world, Max smelled good things to eat, and so he gave up being king of where the wild things are. But the wild things cried, “Oh, please don’t go! We’ll eat you up! We love you so!”
But Max said, “No.” And he climbed aboard his private boat…

White birds
are
harder to
chew
than
wolves are

You are not a hen. You are not a kitten. You are not a cow. You are not a car, or a plane, or a Snort. You are a bird, and you are my mother.

The white bird couldn’t escape the gnawing grip of the tiger lilies. Her wings, now clipped by their maws, were tainted red by their bloodstained teeth. Her tail was caught among the green leaves. No one could see her any longer. But reality set in and the traps were broken. The sunrise gobbled up the night and she didn’t want to leave the warm embrace of the bloodied flowers…

Once upon a time, there was a princess –
“Was the princess you?
- and she fell in love –
“Was it hard to do?”
- it was very easy!
“Was he strong and handsome?
“Was he big and tall?”
There’s no one like him, anywhere at all…

iloveyou
crytheweeds
iloveyou
crythebluebonnets
iloveyou
criesthesun
iloveyou
crythetigerlilies

“I know who you are,” the man said, “for I made you. I built the tower and set it in motion. I planted the meadow, put fish in the ocean. I’ve seen you fall down in the mud and the goo. I’ve seen all you’ve done and all you will do. Here’s what you look like. Here’s how I see you. Put this in your pack and you’ll find it will free you from all of the pictures and all of the lies that others make up just to cut down your size.”

Suffocated by the words of the flowers and the desire of the skies, the white bird died…

And Max sailed back through a day, and in and out of weeks, and almost over a year to his very own room, where he found his supper waiting for him

And it was still hot.

Wings fly on.
Beating in her chest.
Maybe it’s her muscles straining to fly.
Maybe her heartbeat.
Only wild things love me,
She sings.
Until the sun
Eats her up
In his enthusiasm to see her
And the joy of the sky
Embraces a
White hand.

{Featuring selections from
A Bargain for Frances, by Russel Hoban
Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak
Are You My Mother?, by P.D. Eastman
The Disney classic, Snow White
A Snoodle’s Tale, by Phil Vischer
Original piece, “White Bird” by Catey Yuen}

Two Poems on One Day (Two/ little bits and pieces)

Two

Two planes passed each other in the night

Two silent blinking heartbeats

Two longing believingly hopeful lights

A pilot stops to find a star to eat

Two planes and no delight

Two fireflies passed each other, full of fright

They blink, they cover their mouths

The moon's fear is far too bright

They fall to the ground, careful not to arouse

Two fireflies would never find a might

Two yellow-spiced winds passed each other on the right

Briefly they intoxicate their own poisons

They vomit up their hearing and sight

They turn their blind eyes from wish and reason

Two yellow-spiced winds are always a fight

Two white birds passed each other in flight

Both too tired to want or demand

Their heartbeats and wings fill with breathful white

For just a moment, they hold hands

And two white birds are all quite

little bits and pieces

little bits and pieces

All of life was a map with a key

and it was torn up into

little bits and pieces

I objectify and fragment

I lust and I lose

My vision is a stained glass crackled mirror

Dropped by demons into my eyes

Who are you?

I see only long slender fingers

I hear only the squalling of your singing

I'm distressed by my love

of little bits and pieces

Whole
Half

None

I'll be the white capped head of hair

I'll blend into the green eyeliner

No one will find me

And no one will care

And we'll call the silence freedom

And we'll be free

little bits and pieces

of glass and seashells only cut my hands

but if I were invisible, I wouldn't have to worry

about the little bits and pieces

who like to follow me

I'm a mother duck, you see

And the whole of the earth is my duckling

I spit my bill on the ground

Because I'm disgusted

I peck my bony feet till they're

little bits and pieces

My eyelashes all fell out

And I lost my fingers

In the white lake

Beauty is lust

And vision is fr agmented

All is

little bits and pieces

drowning me

Have you seen the little rainstorm?

I put it in a jar

Swirlingly, it whispers

It is full of seaweed, the raw winds of oceanic

Mindsets (when minds are full of pufferfishwhich eat their neighbors

and refuse to see the waves above their heads asanything but

symmetry and empty seashells)

Oh how the pickled skybirds do make me swing

My hands in deathly frustration

Why is the sky so big?

Why am I a jellyfish?

Did you not promise me I would be an angelic

Jellyfish are purposeless and hideous

I am consumed by the pufferfish struggles

I am distraught by the fact

Of the ocean drowning me

drowning me

drowning me

I. am. so. confused. by. grace.

drowning me

drowning me

Lift up your heads, O ye

drowning me

drowning me

Who shall ascend the hill

drowning me

drowning me

Who is the king of glory

drowning me

drowning me

Waves sound like

drowning me

grace

Rainbow Hair

I have pink hair

I have laughed and laughed

Life is so full of rain

My yellowed eyes are all full of

Rain and there is nothing

But rain and go away

Because no one wants you

Or your beesting whistle pipe smiling

If you touch the balloons you will

My hands are crackled and we see

Rainbows [in my hair]

Just some thoughts from stormy, hurricane-swept Pennsylvania as we had our devotional this morning. I don't think I've ever written a poem that combines concepts from My Little Pony and The Prodigal God. (Whoa! I actually gave some of the inspiration for my poem for you to know! So weird! I guess this makes it less ambiguous. -C.)

Monologue

Hello. Does that seem stiff and formal? It kind of feels that way. Okay. Hi, it's me. I just dropped by because, well, I'm not sure. I miss you a lot. That's for sure. A whole lot. It seems like it's been years since we stayed up till three to talk about the sunset. Was that really just last week? Wow. So much has happened since then. The world has ended since then. Or, my world has.

How many years has it been since we first met? Five? Six? I don't even remember. It seems like forever. You were so young, with your nerdy little bowl cut and your cute little smile. I was probably just as young. Is that me? In that picture beside the bed? Wow. Look at me. I'm not who I was.

Remember that time when we made the blanket fort in your basement with all of the fitted sheets? We slew the dragon, plugged in the stereo, and rocked out to Mozart for three hours during the thunderstorm. Your eyes glowed like you were a nocturnal creature and your Figaro aria was spot-on. Quite the singer, you still are.

How about that time when you and I went out dancing in the rain? I felt like a princess, twirling around in my satin dress, rain making my eyelashes stand out more than any makeup. You doubted the sense of dancing in the rain at first, but with you bow tie strapped around your neck, you made a dapper Gene Kelly, singin' in the rain. I don't think either of us knew what we were doing. I know I didn't. And you looked so uncomfortable. But you were a trooper. We spun in circles and pretzels, and then you dropped me. It didn't hurt, and I'm pretty sure you did it on purpose, just to show off how you would always be there to keep me safe.

My favorite memories are still the ones from those late nights, right before... well, you know. It felt like the morning would never get here, and that God had stopped the moon right as we knew we would never be able to go to sleep. I talked about the past a lot. Rome. China. Transcendentalism. Purity. The way things used to be. You renewed my mind. We talked about the future. The way things will be, if all turns out. College. Work. Church. Missions. You. Me. And both of us. And God, of course. Lots about God.

But now, your words are silent, and your beautiful velvet eyes are shut. The future is past. All of our plans, the times that you were going to take me dancing, the times I was going to help you clean your room, the times we were going to stay up all night praying in the church cafe... all of those are gone. I watch them dissolve into the IV plugged into your arm. Your raspy breathing is almost like singing, melodic, like those blues songs we sang to your guitar in the lazy practices.

Oh, my sweet friend! I miss you!

Give me your hands. They've gone cold.

Don't leave me.

All those plans we had, all those things we never got to talk about, all those things I still wanted to tell you...

The future is now.

Wake up.

I love you.

The Lilies Bloom Beyond the Glad [for KK]

My cousin KK asked me to post this poem I wrote for her (it had to be about flowers... hmm!)

The Lilies Bloom Beyond the Glade

So, traitor, you will not be stayed

My bean seeds on the Marvel stove

The lilies bloom beyond the glade

Curled around yourself, we wade

Through spider-blind paths we wove

So, traitor, you will not be stayed

You move, to where the azaelia laid

Dead - dead - you killed this grove -

The lilies bloom beyond the glade

Not a lily, I too was swayed

(I wish I could find my seedling trove)

So, traitor, you will not be stayed

I miss my petals, I was waylaid

You betrayed me and I drowned you in the cove;

[The lilies bloom beyond the glade]

I'm sorry that my kindness grayed

You and I, to my earth I dove

So, traitor, you will not be stayed:

The lilies bloom beyond the glade.

(I'm not sure that I have a point to this poem, but here it is, for you, KK!)

Empty Seashells [thoughts of the Awakening Program]

What's this?

Why are your tears on my cheeks?

Did I steal your sorrow

When we waded into the silver sea

Remember the day that

I combed the seashell's hair

And you laughed in harmony

With the sea urchins

I was still sandy when I

Went up to the heavenly concert

You told me you hated me

But your cries turned to

Paper cranes as they flew up

To the concert to tell me of

Your imaginary friend

Why do you hate me, beloved?

I'm just sandy rose petals

Not worth your trouble

Please, beloved, speak to me

Please, beloved, don't hide

I found our old sandcrabs, seashells

Tears-stained urchins and memory

My seashells are empty

Oh no

Of course I've loved you

But I was just a sandy rose

How could I know I as just an

Imaginary friend

Oh, beloved, don't hide from me

Oh, beloved, don't say I don't

I don't love you

[He whispers in your ear.

Have your forgotten the sound

Of oceans?]

Have you forgotten the cold embrace?

Oh, don't cry, here in

Here we find clean flowers

To dance at. I never miss

- I found forever and it sang -

Steal back the empty seashells

Fear not, little sea urchin

For now I know you.

Have you forgotten how to laugh

[do you remember anything but your sighs?]

Come beloved, and I will love

I will always love

I have always loved

[You]