winter song

it's a warm winter -
the smells are heavy and
it's humid, like a bathroom

let me clear the mirror
it's still raining. three days now
better than snow.
the days drag their feet -
my eyes burn with
anticipation of something else -
almost anything else.

untitled.

dear god
im often
reminded
of why
i don't
pray.

i'm helpless
and sometimes
hopeless.

Thursday Morning Song

I want to dive
right in there
and
pick up
my hopes,
pack them right up
and
turn myself due North
and say,

(for the seventh time)

i'm ready.

untitled

The smell of morning
reminds me that we
are each other's and
it is good.

the newest

It's raining. It's always raining; well, not really. but tonight, as it's raining, the tide is swelling in my heart soul.

Here are some things i want to say (and i feel i can say these things to you):

I have dehydrated my spirit swimming through suffering and
I've bloodied my fingertips scratching for mercy.
I've bruised my elbows bracing myself for grief and
I've gashed the tender soles of my feet trudging barefot through disappoinment.

I'm not the only one- this is an ancient song, these are old blues. But I sing them.

But that's not it - the story goes on.

I've crafted my clothes from Birch tree bark and muddy water and
I've offered up my Earth to the giver with dirty fingernails.
I have been kindred spirits with stranger,
I've had sunlight graze my fingertips,
I've sang praise with the snail and the clouds and the whales and thunder (yes, even the thunder).

I've been hurt, but, oh, have i been happy.

I've constructed my life's paradigm, built up that baby, nail for nail - tear for tear with grief and happiness. (One without the other pales to one because of the other). The walls of my heart's memory remember the way i cry for death. Arms of comfort hold me tight until i can breathe easy. until the strain in my throat rests easy.

I still cry. I still pluck out questions from the thin air like, "is it even fair" "isn't existing and breathing in and breahting out just so disrespectful?" I do that still -- and it's been 8 years. But, I allow myself to. To ask, to feel, to grieve...

I slather it all over my morning toast and choke it down. I make a bed of ashes and flop around until i fall asleep - I get lonley. I get so lonely I do insane, unforeseen things. I cut my own hair. I scream a string of cuss words to stray weeds and my dusty shelves. Minutes or months go by.

Just then, when the tip of my nose is cold with this pain, I reach far back in my attic, grab a few memories and snuggle the hell right out of them. I sing a song of forgivness, of apology of praise to my dad, to all dads and birds and babies and mothers and flowers and possoms and friends and to everything and everyone who's ever left the earth - I miss you, i say. I love you, I'm sad and I forgive myself for.. for whatever.

And then, the lilacs are striking every chord, the sky's blueness blinds me, each dandelion smiles her teethy grin; love and grief, and love because of grief, overwhelms me.

We are graceful creatures who fumble around in the darkness after chaos and tragedy, but we are always searching for the sun's light to warm our faces - and most of the time, she's already found our flesh.

-amen.