found divinity (submission-ready)

You are my goddess.

watching your form

at a far-flung clip-

eyes trace the dance of a curve

from your waist to your hip

as if they had tongues-

pausing at every inch,

hungry yet unsung

mutate my mood to robust-

inspire soliloquies

words so fervent they combust

trace the incline of your smile

teeth bared, eyes alight,

angel arranged to beguile-

You are my goddess.

have seen you in a head-trip,

a dream or meditation

now corporeal before me

my vitality near detonation-

a prayer in solidity,

a lucid realization of hope-

assuredness transfigured turbidity

perplexity knowing no scope-

mixtures of elation and reverence,

aversion and obsession

fascination with no severance-

I'm enamored but with trepidation-

rouse me forward

and find me trekking with relish

combine dynamism and rhyme

no need to embellish

You are my goddess.

* * *

Written while considering a rather blissful companion, back in 2002 or 3.

perpetual care 'til the end of time (submission-ready)

"Perpetual Care 'Til the End of Time,"

says the faded-out printing

on the ramshackle sign.

Tombstones guarding the

grown-over paths- names chipping

slipping silently to ground,

yielding to twin wraths

of time and circumstance.

Empty beer bottles

strewn about blazes of

stickerweed and thistle

prickly points of cacti replace

the sign's exaggerated epistle.

Water pooling stale, teeming sick

with larvae and disease

affairs foreboding wafting despair

to the very canopy of the trees.

Intaglio of Jesus invaded

by blue-green moss-

life blooming on dead stone savior

hanging limply from crafted cross.

All anonymous residents now corpses

and fertilizer for the forests and wilds

feeding from spent decades of

a landscape and era free of charades.

From the heavens rain down

distant recollections of a chime:

nature echoes covenant

'tween ghosts and sounds sublime,

"Perpetual Care 'Til the End of Time."

simulacrum (submission-ready)

Smelled upon breath is

sweet bottled optimism-

swallowed, pasteurized

chemically-born mask.

Translucence over eyes grants

sight as though a veil-

a shelter velveteen-tender

demeanor muted, certitude paled-

a stimulating simulacrum

this aftertaste of life.

About my spirit a phantasm

flavored of doubt and paranoia

it cradles like a shroud of

sumptuous cashmere,

proud rococo styling like

foolish notions held dear-

ideas, ideals and influence.

Structure of soft plastic outside

but innards of limpid steel expands

and ripens-a plenary prison keep

buttressed by cruel homilies.

Spirit inside sits petrified

waiting in vain for resolution
in this self-styled sepulcher.

element call- US Freedom Circle

The pagan group of which I was part held as far as I can tell, the first US Freedom Circle back in the early 2000s. We called upon the spirits of Lady Liberty and Uncle Sam, and on various great Americans as selected by the members. Coke and Twinkies were cakes & ale. These are the element calls I wrote for it:

* * *

The East brings the winds

that blow of freedom's promise

a nation's new beginning was birthed

with a quiet footfall

upon the rocky shores

of a fateful place

that would be known as Massachusetts

The sea air,

There giving the gift of inspiration,

that the East would lead in bright discovery,

In commerce and policy

And invite our imagination

To wander far and wide.

Powers of air,

Of inspiration

You are honored and welcomed!

The South stokes the fire

the passion of the summer's heat-

the rising up of sabers

forged of honor and tradition

defending to the last breath

individual will.

A magnolia

with the spirit

of the sacred phoenix of antiquity,

blessed with the courage

to bloom once more after having been burned

and to recast itself as a bastion of justice

churning plumes of zealous ardor

and sparking drive to succeed.

Powers of fire,

Of passion and courage

You are honored and welcomed!

The West floods with waters

Flowing with emotion

The gateway to the Pacific ocean

Pours out all intuition.

Past the sands of the desert

Where moisture is a precious gift.

A healing salve for the wounds of our journey,

and a quenching of thirst for a new frontier.

Our west is blessed with the rains of Oregon

and the wisdom of those that came this way first,

the ancient knowledge

like the foam of the sea,

tucked to and fro

along the supple shoreline

tells us of love to encompass all beings.

Powers of water

Of healing and emotion

You are honored and welcomed!

The North stands solid

upon mounds of earth

solidified and sturdy

a mountain of certainty

in an uncertain world.

Steadfast and reliable

like the wheel of the seasons,

yet ductile and malleable

Resilient through changes

As when shaped into art

In the South Dakota ranges

jutting faces of the fathers up over the expanse.

Gifts us with nourishment from her arboreal hearth.

Holds our bodies at birth

and at death returns them home,

And we merge with the soil

No longer alone.

Powers of earth

Of stability and sustenance,

We welcome you!

The Center quietly sings

though it's voice contains arias

resounding into space

and the ageless beyond.

With you we crossed the Delaware

We beat back the odds

And defended the dream of a regentless realm.

When we shredded in half, torn asunder by hatred

The liberty of your song

caused the wounds to convalesce.

We broke forth from tyranny,

Great emancipator of souls

All above and all below

Gave us strength to strike a blow,

to loose the shackles of impiety

At Argonne, at Normandy,

At Midway and Iwo Jima

in Korea and Vietnam we learned your lessons.

Now your melody is heard

past twin scars of light

blazing in the sky in a New York night.

We sing back in harmony-

Our spirit unbroken

our voices echo strong

with the character of this land,

this ideal that will not die

this America.

Powers of spirit

of immanence and will,

We welcome you!

pa's hat

I first wore the hat at the age of two

in a picture my mother took.

It swallowed my head- its immense size;

an adult's hat on a child's head.

My grandfather wore the hat around the 1950's-

when it was stylish. It fit him funny

we always laugh about the way it sat

on top of his head.

When off it came, a part of him was left inside and stayed for years as it sat alone in the top of his closet.

When I grew bigger, I lifted the hat from it's lonely perch.

Now it fit me-the brown hat hugging my head snugly but not too tight.

And all of a sudden, I left the place where the hat and my grandfather were for years.

But when I wear the hat, part of Pa infuses me.

His love and laughter spring to life

and make me into a man such as he.

And neither hats nor grandfathers are forever...

But I'll wear the hat, and I'll keep that part of him

left so many years ago.

And when he's gone, there will be a man

who laughs like him, and walks like him, and cares like him.

Still wearing his Pa's hat.

found divinity

People seek the divine in many places. Sometimes it is right before our eyes. If you're lucky you'll meet up with it every once in a while. I did.

* * *

You are my goddess.

watching your form

at a far-flung clip

eyes tracing the dance of a curve

from your waist to your hip

as if they had tongues

pausing at every inch

hungry yet unsung

mutate my mood to robust

inspire soliloquies

words so fervent they combust

trace the incline of your smile

teeth bared, eyes alight

angel arranged to beguile

You are my goddess.

have seen you in a head-trip

a dream or meditation

now corporeal before me

set my vitality to detonation

prayer in solidity

a lucid realization of hope

assuredness transfigured to turbidity

perplexity knowing no scope

mixtures of elation and reverence

aversion and obsession

fascination with no severance

I'm enamored but with trepidation

rouse me forward

and find me trekking with relish

combine dynamism and rhyme

no need to embellish

You are my goddess.

the night i knew

It was a lightning flash coming towards me

from your mouth and hands and animated gestures,

penetrating my head and body. We were standing in

your former home, late at night, the current resident on a trip.

You were gesticulating, pointing to this, and to that;

those things that had their origins in your head

but now servicing someone else. And when the words were exclaimed,

the flash,

and the feelings that erupted inside me.

I wanted to say what you had done was a thing of beauty,

that I had been with you then, not him,

and that I had appreciated every single, tiny wife-y touch

you put on that house. The pride in your voice sustained that lightning bolt,

centering things, hovering it before my eyes;

causing me to envision, or believe I could envision,

futures where a meal might bake, steam rising from the dish

like lighting on pause

until inhaled to complete the hallucination.

So I grabbed you with both hands,

spinning you around, jabbering something, ultimately unable

to articulate the feelings and the hunger and the steam,

or the strength with which they came.

wayside pulpit

Mind astray reading the

words on a wayside pulpit-

so awkward a prophet-

bumbling knowledge-

the acidity of a stunted worldview.

Are you simple as this?

So explainable by twists of phrase 

and pithy wagging tongues

of a bored and boring populace?

Or do you exist in more than an

ever-changing, plastic-lettered,

scared domicile of homicidal 

banalities; meant to be smart?

Might you reside in the

memory of a deceased relative

who died in pain but lived in promise?

Do you dwell a lady’s kiss

at Summer’s first light, balefires lit,

anticipating your rise?

Have you been heard in silent want

upon cold gray steps, with brothers' 

saffron robes dragging the freezing floor?

Or can you be found in

a painted representation of a savior 

dangling, bleeding, rescinding all sin?

Do you feel anger when forced

in containers or bound in

dead leather as the pages of a book?

Can you smell the petals of

an opening rose; waft along the breeze;

yourself the perfume of floral fascination?

How does it feel to be an enigma-

an unknown quantity

straddling an absolute world?

Have I seen you in my daughter’s smile;

my son’s face in the morning

when I am home and it’s Saturday

and what's past is left in proper place?

I care not how you were conceived;

how to ratify your existence; define your mystery.

I seek only your presence, not to fall by the wayside-

no pulpits, nor altars, nor prayers, nor kneeling.

* * *

Since I took such a long break between posts, I thought I'd try to write something new. That didn't work out, so I went back to a past piece & edited the hell out of it (or maybe into it, depends on your worldview.) One of my pet peeves are those little blurbs that appear alongside the road on church marquees- wayside pulpits- that are supposed to be witty. To me they epitomize the general dumbing-down of religion in this country.