Chasing Luna

Like a bizarre bowling accident she
limps down the alley
Unaware of the unseen eyes that see
what she does not want them to see
that she is weak/helpless/vulnerable.
Resting for a moment near the corner
of the street, she wishes that someone
anyone would help her... she is hurt.
She knows the sting of pain and the vague
anguish of guilt: of that much she is capable.

She is somewhere low on the horizon
on the edge of winter
Hail rains down like the fists of an ange(l)red
lover pounding on the red-tilted slate roof.
She waits for the clouds to go
She waits for the soft snow to leave
and the leaves to blow away down the street.
She is the moon.

He sees her but she does not know that he is there
He knows that she was/is trying to hide at the
end of the alley below the stairs.
He wants her and wants her to went him too.
He wishes that he could make her give him her heart
and he wonders why sometimes when he cut her,
her skin looks sort of blue.

He remembers the wind blowing through his hair
as his Honda 660 screams down the highway.
He knows how the breeze feels on his face
When a storm is just an hour or so away.
He is the sun.

He is somewhere behind the mountains
The Rockies rise tall and seem
unencumbered by the weight of snow;
They rise unconcerned and stand among the gods
crested with the hard ice and snow of summer
that never seem to want to go away.

Wind screams down from heaven
down the mountains
across the plains.
But by the time it reaches the city
it seems more like a lonely sigh.

October 1998

Living in a Moment

I am old.

I am the one they call the old man.

A Patriarch. A family man.

I am lying here. Lying here where

no one can hear me.

Sure, they come and go,

talking with voices low.

I am almost gone.

I find that I do not even care where

I go.

I am too tired for that.

That is not what I am thinking about now.

I am thinking of the stories that I have been told,

and the stories that I have told.

I am happy because I was loved.

I am happy because I loved.

The room is dark and all I can remember is the way

the sun one day reached down almost playing,

touching the leaves of the a tree, turning them gold.

6.21.1998

Hothouse

Anger flares like the unlit match
held over a bright candle.
The flame singes as it sizzles
into existence.
then the singing becomes shouting.
"Why can't you be more like your sister!?"
and
"Why do you have to cause so much trouble?!"
Rage swells like a heat wave cresting
in a force which sends the porch toppling
to the ground.
Ashes to ashes.
              Ashes fly to the sky half-lit by a half-moon.
Bad intentions spread with rumors and whispers
into the window frames and walls. And
boom             boom              boom.
Glass shines through the night,
                   tears of reflected light.
A section of roof gives way to gravity and fire.
Startled, voices at the end of the street cry out for
help,
as the four wheels of a blue Mustang turn in
                                                      the other direction.

8.5.1995

Given Time

Born of magic, born of might

A turtle by day and bear by night.

The characters from the books she's written

Come to her mind again and again.

She brushes hair back from her face,

Everything is ready

Everything is in place.

The pen moves of its own free will

until

she stops to stare out the window

at a darkness full of uncertain futures

and half-hearted starlight.

Tempted, torn just a little too much,

she's paying the price for a

moment of truth.

The pen moves once more

Up-down-up again, and

she realizes that she now has

too much to lose, and

too little to win.

The bedroom door is open upstairs, and

she can hear him snoring, unsuspecting.

Bus fare waits in her purse,

and soon she'll be running

away from her family and away from her curse.

The letter is read, re-read, and read again,

folded then placed by their bed.

The front door closes with barely a whisper,

and she catches a shooting star low on the horizon

out of the corner of a red and swollen eye.

She pads along the sidewalk in worn-out shoes

leaving her children to a man she never really knew.

Born of mystery, born of night:

She wishes that she may,

she wishes that she might...

3.28.1998

Fast Asleep in a Slow-Burning House

Tonight hear the roar of the fire. Not a fire.

Not the mindless flames of local fame.

Not the blank borrowed stares

from a burned-down warehouse.

Hear the sizzle of the fire

that has eyes and teeth;

hear the fire that is within me.

This same fire sent angels to their knees.

This fire rages in my heart

occasionally,

yet mostly sleeps.

A fitful dream-ridden shimmer

of smoke and shadow.

The cold rain of an early winter

reaches me, touches me.

For just a moment I feel the fire

flare then simmer.

I can see more clearly as the light grows dimmer.

And this, autumn's first day, rains down in sheets of gray

that would chill others to the bone;

yet, to me it feels more like home.

The silent searing of my soul slows, then ceases.

The sparks that had invited conflagration are lost in the dark.

I know I have a promise to keep to the woman I love.

I know this rain can fill an ocean deep.

Wind whistles anxiously above

through wet branches, whispering.

She knows me. I know her;

And I know that soon, I will sleep.

9.22.1997

The Stoning of Stephen

How it must have hurt his heart to have heard
how the people said he spoke about Moses
when Stephen knew that the servant revered
the same God, the God of both thorns and roses.
With what poise, what perfect posture did he meet
that first insult, the first innuendo. the first blow.
This is recorded in the Acts of the Apostles Chapter Seven,
how facing their shaking fists, Stephen stood not alone as
God's own courage made him stand on his swaying feet
when it would have been smarter to run from the stones
but Stephen knew that running would make him weak.
And as he found his way he sought God to the last
rock hurled at him by hands shaking with fear and rage,
yet not on his body, but on the other stones did it land,
because the enemy who fights us is no sage, and
he thought himself the winner... Stephen was dead.
Before he left this world though, he fell to his knees,
and...hear it-- his last words...this is what he said:
"Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." And, of all the pleas he
could have made: "Lord, don't charge them with this sin!"
His dear love of those who killed him is an example for me.
His forgiveness is a lesson for me and for us all.
His witness made him a winner, yet what had he won?
He could not hope to teach the milling mob or reach them all
But God used his death to reach just one...the one
who held the coats of the killers, his name was Saul.

1.16.2009

all the law

his hands almost want to start to shake because they have for so long...
he is not used to being this strong.
like ten-penny nails down a chalkboard is
the rhythm of the sharp focused beats of his heart.
he welcomed the day when the mist burned away
and the fog fell prey to the flames of summer suns rising
and falling like a red tide, until there were no fears
no shadows no place for trepidation and timidity to hide.
and following Paul's advice for Timothy,
he no longer struggles
to ease his burdens even the one he packed himself
and packed it tight.
hear it, hear it, hear it,
the sound of spirit,
the cry of a phoenix,
a discipline he welcomed the evening when everything else
perished in the fire and now all that he does not mean or intend
is the end of bearing burdens or the end of struggling
with the weight and the waiting.
instead heaven is bearing the weight of gloy and bearing it very well.
this is the strength he feels now because Jesus told him of the secret
of the 2 laws leaving off the other 616;
no Pharisee or Sadducee ever felt so free.
faith for him is feeling that comfortable weight
when he cannot see the pack and
still walking the way when he cannot see the path.

8.12.2008