Manger Straw

Some days
mom sang me lullabies
and i held my breathe
along with her
join the symphony
of dazzling lights
and ephiphany
“I seen Jesus”.

Her head would slump
and her mouth frown
in exclamation marks
“child i have no idea what you talking about.”

I would
stroke mom’s downy feathers
under her belly
where all such pain lands
bandage the broken wing
and hold my arms up high
“fly Jesus! fly!”

Explain to myself
there is no pillow to lay
my momma’s head
“child she has no idea what you talk about.”

Sitting in the Back Seat

Worcester Art Museum, November 2019

Who is the person
known, but unknown
a mystery to the mind.

Our desires
sizzle and sparks
a rather dark world

where my orange dot
retreats and burns
with hell flames, hotter.

I once laid
flat, in your car
now I kneel at an altar.

You say a woman glows
as a sun-lit finch
woven in grass baskets

and I perched above
your head
my soul soars higher.

Pregnant Woman, Otto Dix, Worcester Art Museum

Portal Vision

Norm 2.0 Thursday 🚪

Stuff your eyes with wonder… Ray Bradbury

The leaves tumbled to form a soft blanket around her worn out feet. She had stopped the lengthy trek into the woods, as she had made many evenings before, to hear the softest of sounds coming from the east.

“Hello?” she managed to ask a feeble question that went unnoticed by anything or anyone, except herself. She continued to mumble her thoughts, losing track of the moon, now turned west and setting, for the hour had come to welcome Pan.

His song grew mesmerizing and cast a glow about her face. The hoofs of his feet took a beat to match her heart. Ivy vines wrapped around her legs and gently lowered her to the ground. She lay silent and watched as a figure grew close, shrouded in cloud, as the fog had grown thick from a cool evening breeze that washed away the heat of the sun’s hour.

“Listen now and I shall follow.” his words he whispered softly to her ear as she dreamed upon the moss and stone. “In the evening I so chose to find a lady to hear my sorrow.” She picked up the largest of the white pearly rock and rubbed it to a mirror. Gazing she noticed her face had softened with heated blush and rouge. With a swipe, her finger licked off the red and she wrote this mystical creature a poem.

Come! o come! Wisp me away
my devilish friend
who comes to stay
in purple passion
and eternal fray.

The sea has brought you wandering
the glen and forest true
to find your maiden
wrapped and warm
with fire in her head.

Come! o come! you hear me say
the years have worn you down
my cheer, not strife
with flute and pipe
the sorrow worn upon a frown.

The oaks are laden with brimming nuts
and food to last our spring
will come and we shall live
in magic harmony,
arm in arm for eternity.

As Pan approached the fairness of her heart, he bent to touch her silken hair, now golden to light time. He grasped her hungrily and the evening’s stars disappeared. The winter of his discontent vanished into spring. And their summer child frolicked gaily upon the streams.

The Pan statue photographed can be found in the woods at Tower Hill Botanic Gardens in Boylston MA. It is quite a lovely place to stir the imagination. Happy writing, J

https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=god+pan+music&&view=detail&mid=A813A86C1207D8D47D88A813A86C1207D8D47D88&&FORM=VRDGAR

 

 

Sainted Heart

It started as an earache
which led to sharp pain
felt in the middle of her body.

The drip, drip, drip
water is never cheap
a clearer liquid useless
so she drank from the rusted cup
holding herself together
not touching the wall
but surrendering
an interior
ready to crumble.

Keeled over the kitchen sink
she caught a glimpse
of what the end of life was like.

An endless jungle-rhythm beat heard
watching waves
her days on end
legs see-saw back-and-forth
with the kelp forest sways
leaving her
uneasy.

Here Now

Summer flies south
on the backs of geese.
Honking, in hopes
to avoid a crash.

I linger a bit longer
on the shore.
Watch their flight,
as they disappear.

Hid behind the wild blues,
berries to consume.
I wonder how the waves to splash,
without their groom.

slightest cut lets in life

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

Like Dicken’s “Tale of Two Cities” I have lived a tale of polar opposites. I have known a dark night of the soul and the fresh morning dew of enlightenment.

No memories can ever be forgotten but they can be forgiven. And the forgiveness allows me to wake up and be grateful for everything. Even the memories that still cause sharp pains. Those are the memories that led me to despair and wrestle in a black, plastic garbage bag until I finally took the knife, I once used against myself, and started cutting open breathing holes.