I had an idea that love
was friends at a table,
watching our kids play
as we played grown-up and talked.
Somehow though, we fed off
each other’s grief and joy
in a more lasting way
than any meal set before us.
Category: Creative Writing
benediction
i dream of magnificent light
pouring through colored windows,
spraying the room with beams
from another world. three children
approach a small table and peer
into a book with moving pictures.
a dragon. then a bear whose strange eyes
can see the future. a cloudy sky with rain
falling on the horizon. after a few
minutes transfixed by the pages,
an old man with one arm enters,
smiles, whispers inaudible words,
and the children become birds that twirl
higher as the stone vault transforms
into an endless springtime sky.
* From Awaiting the Images
the show
we sit inside the car
watching him dance alone
in a field by the school.
one step, then another,
arms up, spinning around,
step again, head nodding.
even from this distance
we see him smile as his
mouth forms words only known
by those who dance in fields
while the world whirls away.
Free Kindle Book – Awaiting the Images – Final Day
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* * *
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This offer is available to anyone, so please pass along the link if you wouldn’t mind.
The Game
We followed him and believed he was unaware
of our presence. Out the front door, across the yard,
then around the corner of the garage. We crept
forward and held our breath, anticipating the moment
we gave ourselves away. But he walked from task
to task, pulling weeds, clipping yellow flowers,
sweeping leaves from the pathway. Then we became
more bold, chuckling quietly to ourselves until,
with one masterful flick of his wrist, the garden
hose sprayed gallons of water into our hiding place,
sending us laughing and screaming across the grass
while he smiled larger than I ever believed possible.
words
there are always words,
even to say there are
no words. spoken,
unspoken. thoughts
in pictures, narration
of the soul. in silence
we disregard them,
do our best to ignore
symbols. yet we strain
to describe anything
meaningful since words
remain when we’re gone.
arriving home
one more stone then crush
his eyes open and light falls
on fields he once knew
where wheat baked beneath
the sun and scent
harvest beckoned his all
now the daylight fades
and his body lies still
a silent crowd scatters
* “arriving home” first appeared in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Number 18, 2002, and it is also in my book Awaiting the Images.
the galactic sojourner
wandering through time
the gunpowder soul startles
the senses. it reminds us
the past is just a parting shot
barreling backwards through
a black hole of memories.
ice storm
mid-winter ice falls
in sheets. everything groans
under frigid weight. nothing
stands without risk.
once it stops we emerge
on skates, eyes wide
with wonder as we glide
through tiny clouds of breath.
Echoes
I believe
God spoke
to me when
I was young,
but now all
is silence.
Thomas said
the echoes
return slow,
but it was still
his voice
obscured
by the jagged
rocks on shore.
If God can
take the form
of the air
we breathe,
wait for echoes
to whisper love.
* Originally appeared in Awaiting the Images. This is a slight modification to the structure.
Awaiting the Images 