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.