Miracles

You walked me ‘cross the water

You made the lions purr

You spoke and with a shimmer

The sun infused the dingy world

The trees flashed winning mouths of green

The still lake blinked and shone

But none these wonders have I seen

Though looked and walked and lived

The real miracle is

Amidst the beauty, gifts, the grace

I’ve festered something else

The opposite of worthy, praise—

sordid fears and self

And say now as John Donne:

Rip me up and root me out and make me feel
Yourself

Construction Site

the breeze blew long

heightening my hairs

hallowing, harrowing, harbinging

But I stood tall

and long

And when it began to rain

to rain

I built my walls

I built my roof

And I stood tall

and long

and long

Until it began to pound

(in my head)

to crack

(in my heart)

And I cowered and shook

and shook

and shook

Behind walls growing thicker

like fingernails left too long

like layers of moss upon moss

too strong for

the sounding, the pounding, the hounding

And when the thunder ceased

it ceased

(over or merely muffled?)

I stayed within

calming

and preening

And I stood tall

and long

But the sun burned hot

and loud

without me

And I stood tall

and long

and long

And never knew—

within my very crevice

beyond my walls and halls and moss and shade

something else grew, too,

and taller

and longer

and stronger—

just beyond my walls

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.