Colors At the End

D46ACDEC-2854-4C34-8F79-B3D279AF166FI don’t know what colors
the sky will speak
during the long hard days of our ending

But it is sure to be beautiful
and terrible
in the way that mushroom clouds are beautiful
and terrible

When something that lives in us
yearns for the great crisis
and we find our meaning like a silent puddle after the storm

In it, we see what we have done
and what is left
taking that first fresh step of belonging towards
a new horizon

Wild Basket of Her Heart

88031411-0A28-4426-AE61-B77BB844FA51She weaves a basket with healer’s hands
With ribbons from the swamp so green

She’s going to find that Sweet Spot and
Become the Wild Weaver Queen

Strong enough and plenty bold
All the things that need to hold

But flexible too in beauty bending
Around the shape of things and mending

Past and present sacred wounding
Scissors for what needs the Pruning

The matter of the Moisture Spell:
Too wet and the ribbons swell

Worse yet it grows a mold
But too dry it breaks, won’t hold

Gaps emerge when dry and shrinks
Things leaking from weakest links

There’s the matter of the Weaving Art:
Too many directions and it all falls apart

The old patterns won’t do, the heart
Needs a new design, so starts

A patience, and a fall and flow
A trimming and a letting go

When present with what is there
The perfect size and shape appears

Unfolding freely in her lap
Ribbons lacing without a gap

The sweet spot sweetly spelled
And all the right things sweetly held
In the wild basket of her heart so well

Three-Headed Hound

F16BF28D-2F3D-4540-A11E-99BF29B4DBD7That three-headed hound at the gate?

I know him well
as he is my own monster

The shape of his canine fangs fit
my perfect wounds
and his brutish faces
of self-doubt, shame, and abandonment
gaze inward as much as out

But I am entering a new world
so I dispatched him
and swallowed his serpent tail as dessert

After wrestling for three long lifetimes the deed is done

My swords are not unsharp
yet I used not iron
but a much more deadly weapon–
a lion’s heart

Now, he is my loyal soldier
re-commissioned into the advanced guard
for the journey ahead

But I need not swagger
nor be overly bold
I know bigger shades await
that will not be so deterred

And the biggest,
that dark one at the bottom
remains noisy
and so far, unconquerable

Knock and See What Answers

29319C3F-F85A-4037-A07D-5B620950F139How a man knows himself
like the taste of blood in his mouth
like desire ripe as guardian oak
crimson and certain.

To share this and find yourself
knowing new
with a fabulously defeated mind.

It starts as a look–
something astonished
has your face in the water
drinking a startled pulse of meaning.

Knock and see what answers.

Wait patiently. Do not force your way in.
Sit on the porch til dawn if you must.

Maybe it’s your porch. Have you checked the basement, the attic?

Maybe it’s your house
and you forgot the key.

Maybe the key has been hidden under
the chair you’ve been sitting on
this whole time.

Unlock your desire, taste your blood.
Don’t lose heart, the night is young.

What Can We Expect From a Poem?

AEAFD488-4ED6-4BC7-AD54-928DCEBF8E5BAn elucidation
making hidden things manifest
a jolt, a revolution
a delicious meal
a top-40 hit

A nugget like a burgundy sea-shell among the grey
a meteor shower
walking you home with an arm around your waist
make you feel something–

Face something you’d rather not face
too much – tell my poem to fuck off
a laugh or a tear
a grimace
a sadness
a joy
some thin strand of hope?

To see something new
as through a soft portal
to see something old from the underbelly
to see something from inside of the mitochondria
from the point of view of a worm
from the uvula-a-a-a-a hanging?

A reason to revolt
to live
to die
like waves crashing
relentlessly against the shore?

Chart the globe
a wordy longitude
blessed rage for order
to be a culture maker, a world maker
making me making you?

But what if, like life, it just asks a question
with no final answer?

What then?


82D2B438-8167-432D-9023-B891785F8C4APain not as pain felt
but lack and war
is why the mourners worship More
and stack the filling and in filling well
do not quite feel well.

What’s more–do not know their mournings know
for all their Nows are lost and stuffed
and in the filling spill the hurt
into spaces where sickness creeps
and burns nests of Whyless Hearts

But there’s no lack of Whys
of morning meaning’s wild worth
just ask the mild moon inside to fly
in her opening and closing eyes
in her spinning west and north

But why must we eat others’ Whys?
Oh why oh why die in life?

When within the spaces well within
The Well
we might as well Why our lives
with the Whys that we own
all the Whys in which we dwell

and therefore become well as well
as the moon as she swells
and pours forth her monthly spell