Crooked Angel

Crooked angel atop the tree,

Your slanted light shines onto me

Atop my head a halo hue;

A blessing, or a broken fuse?

Crooked angel, so still and white

You brightly shine at bleak twilight,

Between the night and ‘morrow’s day

Your wings have O, so much to say

Of flight into another year, 

Of memories in quiet tears, 

Of fears and hopes stacked on the shelves,

And spaces made for brand new selves,

Once old facade drifts, lost, behind

And spirit comes revealing mine

Eternal soul come out to play—

In crooked angel kinds of ways.

Winter’s Storming

I am in spring.

You are in winter.

I sow my seeds

As you sow splinters.

I stand below,

Awe in your grandeur; 

Your eyes downcast

Perceive a voyeur.

The heavy snow

Cakes on your shoulders,

A weighted life

Makes you look older.

This night is long

But shortening soon,

Inhale deeply

Into every bloom

Of the Spirit

In the wintry wind,

That wakes you

From hibernation;

Hear her whisper

In the quiet dark,

For with it comes

A quickening spark;

To remind you

Of your leaves ablaze,

Last season when

You finessed your rage.

There will, again

Be a gathering,

After summer’s 

Sanguine smiling.

Now take my hand,

And feel it warming

The tired bones

From winter’s storming.

O, my soul

I am the father, returning

from a long day, clutching 

his rumpled sports jacket, dragging 

tired feet behind bruised ankles, bearing

the growing weight 

of a briefcase brimming with words 

on paper jostling cough drops, now leaning lazily

into the chair-back next to the bed

where you are, O, my soul;

waiting for me.

I am the mother, waiting

poised before the table lamp, silhouetted

within the kitchen window pane, peeking

through the one-way glass

of his adult world, pining

for a place to be someone seen

and known, skilled enough to shape another,

with strong hands, gone limp in the lap

where you are, O, my soul;

waiting for me.

I am the child, free

to curl into myself, free

to learn to laugh, free

to know to cry, free

to hold myself, tight-fisted

and free, to give what is not mine

back to a world that swallows 
innocence whole, dousing the hearthstone

where you are, O, my soul;

calling me home.

Re-membering

The word’s acidity

balances the body,

dissolving metal in flesh,

re-moving pins tenderly placed in tendons

where liget ligaments hung listless.

Bones never cracked open

with clear lines to re-fuse

but chipped and changed,

calcifying into sculptures my artist soul

shaped without consent.

Fragile and strong, 

these truths sewn together with skin

in the game no one signed up to play; 

so I forgot to play anyway,

to spit out grass and blood

and smile, because the dirt tastes good

after taking a kick in the teeth

and despite the pain,

it’s nice to feel 

happy.

changing shape

my middle toe is bent

crudely rubbing the top 

of my Birkenstock

flicking off the ground 

beneath my right foot

forgetting how it used to rest

on the cushion underneath

the soft skin of its waist stands awkwardly erect

posed forever downward dog

until it fuses again

with another bone

moved to relationship 

by proximity

and shared tension

by a receptive capacity for joining

and a body that fights itself

with each swell it changes shape

and i learn to recognize myself, anew

love is strong

the movement of fire, internal

bellied up and beating in the chest, rising

to guttural cry, deep and throaty.

a warrior’s love,

no fear of death, 

even life dissolves, within 

desire

: enamored,

each moment made

new by nearness.

amore è forte

mirrored by biceps and bulging breasts,

open hearts,

rendered,

empty, awaiting the piercing arrow,

dying. happy.

Something Jesus said

i am new wine

stomped on, 

the old way

and now this skin is 

too tight

like a finger pricked

i bleed through 

beading the sack

soon all of me will spill 

out

sloshing

and rimming

the hand

that drinks

seeking royal peerage

in lips stained purple
and clinging 

to a temporary
embrace

your holy kiss

And it was sunlight

Her lips parted 

like a cloudy day.

Brightness shone 

in the rose of her cheeks

as she smiled

blood blushed delight

at our parting.

Aloneness is not loneliness.

The soul desires 

itself, unmasked

unfinished and undulating 

in infinite becoming;

to see its own face

each moment

in that eternally lit room

at the center of spirit,

the intersection of all

belonging.

I took pictures

in my mind

and flipped through her pages

when I was alone.

She laughed, and it was sunlight.

She clapped her hands

She clapped her hands
to a beat no one could follow

How foolishly she looked
compressing so vigorously

a heart that stopped beating
three years ago

Heads bowed
hearts folded in prayer

She just kept clapping her hands

After the rain

Tree leaves shoot spitballs in my eye and laugh
jostling like middle-school boys
punching each other with scrawny arms

Each fist a valentine kiss
a baptismal sting

Do I see differently now?

that clouds have cleared
and raindrops pool at my feet
bleeding soil

reflecting the naked rainbow
that streaks through the yard
with a twinkle in his eye

What delight there is in the slow recovery.

of holy waterfalls from heaven
that cleanse
and merge
the imperceptible divide

What was only seen through
a squint’s slit
opens wide
in the gentle safety
of steam
rising from the sidewalk

rising from the heat of the soul
lit again
by an interior flick of
the ethereal switch

The heart’s imperceptible desire
flung wide
as an Ohio sky
after the rain

To Be Small

to be small.

a feeling in—
significance
In—

another’s eyes

relegated

negotiated

isolated

for the advantage.

to be small.

given a bar
higher than your reach

told it is 

low

expectation.

to be small.
coming

only from within 

to hide

to protect

from—
another’s eyes,
too narrow

to let your light in

too slim
to hold 

the weight of you.

Weary

She collapses on the kitchen table as you enter the room. 

Shoulders slumped like the rumpled corner of a bedsheet

one edge stretched too thin. 

This is the mold her body shapes to each day 

when the dishes are done 

and the children are in their beds, 

not asleep—not yet—still

pleading with the shadows 

for one more drink 

and one more book 

and one more minute with the light on. 

But she does not 

have one more of anything to give. 

Blurry-eyed and blinking at the clock,
she finds she’s worked too late and too long, 

again.

Leaving her office 

she turns the lock on the door 

like a DJ turns a table on a raucous Saturday night
the moment the beat drops

and an unnatural silence is held in the tension of fingers. 

Walking down the empty hallway 

echoes her own vacancy.

If books could be flowers

If books could be flowers
I’d arrange them by color
and breathe in their dusty jackets
like a lover’s gift

I’d water them with my tears
as each character was pruned
and blossomed

I’d read them in time-lapse
to shrink hours of exploration
into one minute of the day

I’d never pick the best ones
so that they might grow
to heights no one has yet dreamed