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The Collective Chill
Five years removed from heaven
(akin to bubbling hell),
I shame to see my curves and dips exposed.
Before the whole world, or anyone.
Strange ? a departure from the training of my youth,
which holy writ promised impossible.
For in my youth we all stripped our layers
And slipped into heated pools, heated by bubbling hells
We left behind the collective chill And sat, seeping.
We breathed in sweet vapors, as our experiances evaporated
And drifted up, prayers of thankfulness.
No clocks, nor clothes, but cleansing
Five years removed from heaven,
I sit, shiver, long for layers,
Piling them on, piece by piece, until the weight hangs heavy
And I no longer have a shape, only a small memory
Of how I used to look.
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Blanket
When I pull you out from among the others,
smiling at your soft familiarity, your long knowledge of me,
(Acquainted with every contour, every change)
I suddenly long for the fleeting heat,
to catch it before the moment had passed,
and since the children are at school,
we wrap around each other,
once,
twice, and duty falls to the ground
(the church dresses left to wrinkle in the dryer).
There is nothing but you, me, and the touch between us.
Hot against my cheek,
Rain-like and clean,
collapsing on the couch together,
we close our eyes, and I smile to sleep in you.
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Glitter Crown
much round comes the Glitter crown
to pull the spine of loyal hound
and bites around the use of talk
to bend the will and break the walk.
here's the mound of loyal heap
with no more talk and oversleep
bound with strength of Glitterness
cuts the skin and stops the breath.
wearing crown of power found
descends one pulling loyal hound
never seeing the harm causing
Glitter crown being so falsing.
beaten becomes earth and ground
all in damp graving mound
with no more talk and oversleep
walk the ones within the deep.
loyal hound warnings yelp
but there is none to give the help
Glitter crown famine brings
and down drops you.
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His Jubilee
One oath I make, oh Lord, with a true-faced hymn:
If one could love the pilgrim soul in me
and love the sorrows of my changing face - -
If when I wake in trembles at the iron night,
I could lean into his softly scented grace - -
I would learn to be his jubilee, his second sight.
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Unrosy
This place is so strange.
I want to be back home.
I want to be with the weeds
That thrive on the mountain
That cling to the richness of the soil,
The coolness of the air.
Why am I in this hot, hindered garden?
Why am I with the roses?
I want to be back home.
"But you are home," the roses laugh.
"You're a rose now," they say.
I don't want to be a rose.
I want to be a weed in a tattered skirt.
Who clings to the gray and the brown and the green.
I want to be home.
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A Depressing Song
As I sit on the windowsill
With my heart beating still
Watching all the world go on killing
As I wonder why
All the days speed on by
I am left with only myself.
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The Unwritten Poem
I have all these feelings I want to express
I want to record them, to imprint them.
How can I make myself clear?
Aye, there's the rub.
I don't want to forget my imaginings.
I can't not remember.
I don't want to be lost.
These are the times that try mens' souls.
My little quirks and nothings.
My dreams and thin-airs.
I want to hold these forever, but how do I start?
It was a dark and stormy night.
Yeah, right.
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