Upon the Occasion of Thunder

It rattled as if to shatter
the window pane behind
to make me jump and fray my nerves
Then soothed its violence
among the trees,
pattering, whispering to the leaves
If Thor turns such a gentle lover
Come Thunder, if you please.

Finger Printing

The khaki uniform

The badge upon the chest

Courage and authority

Mewed behind a desk

The face was kind but business-like

The process pure bureaucracy

But through the sterile plastic gloves

The fingers touching mine,

The tentative good humor,

The light that ‘scaped from out those eyes as I looked up

—Said something

Something more

Than khaki

and customary questions.

words on a paper towel, dappled with sweat

somewhere in me there’s a poem

for this feeling

but the words

I’ve used before:

holey verbs, like

yearning, aching, throbbing

throbbing, aching, yearning

where do they find their home

besides within my breast—

in him, in Him

in You, in thee—

holy—wholly—threads

trailing into a misty horizon

to seek the end?

or find an end in seeking?

Links

How many times have you fallen in love?

How many times have you stayed?

I’ve fallen in love in a minute

A million minutes

And I’ve fallen again today—

There was something about you,

Or what I thought was you

That met something about me,

Or what you thought was me,

Or what I thought was me

—And the moment stuttered.

It shone

It blushed

With clumsy, bashful beauty

Fleeting

And glorious.

I left brimming.

I left parched.

I cling to that moment and fuse it beside

The others, link after link

Woven among the cockles,

Secret cortaneous art.

Longing

Longing is a heartbreak:

A vapid air inside one’s chest

The cavity achill

Beneath the bleak and bony cage

Frost nibbles at the heart

Longing is a heartbreak,

Not of the love that’s lost

But of the love that’s grown and grown

And grown the wrong way—down

No memories or kisses to feed its feeble sprouts,

The tree of longing burrows

It twists and knots itself;

Without a love to match it, steal it, reveal it,

It pulses in the dark

Longing is not heartbreak;

It’s love without a love

Loss before there’s loss

Barren branches boundless as the sea

Not a breaking, but an aching

A cancer, not a crack.

Nutshell

Was there once a fairytale,

a nursery rhyme,

a fable,

about a little girl who slept

in a nutshell?

It would have to be the hardest kind

of shell, grooved and thick and opal-shaped,

uglier than a duckling on the outs.

Its hinges would of course be hid,

its latch as well in secret,

so none would know the pearl laid within.

Her downy head would be protected, upon its bed of

fur, silken silver and stripes of brown

to camouflage her tawny locks.

Her soft brown gown would curl her ‘round

as she’d rest beneath the stars.

She’d know they glowed though it was dark,

and then they’d glow for her

alone

and no creature of the forest floor,

or heights or branches, burrows or doors,

would ‘sturb the little girl.

A rest like Snow and Rip and bears

would weight her lids and fill her up

and make her glow for something more.