Lip

What God joined together,

a curt hurt

separated. The promise 

to have and to hold

tossed, crumpled,

by the road.

Though far out in a huff,

the proven meatball recipe called for a call,

cell phone tether

eased me back to a warm kitchen

and you, apronned, stirring

that famous red sauce,

tomato pasting our marriage.

An accosting lip is

better bit, tears

blinking to realize my stubborn steps

nearly led the eye to eye

to a storm.

 

Rib

On the day I was wrong

about everything,

far from Jesus feet

perfumed by the penitent,

I loosened my shoe

rubbing the dust of the world

from my soul.

What should've been love,

tore like a blanket,

stained coffee dark,

heart bitter.

This husband,

reduced to a mad pissing boy,

woodshedding tears,

wringing the too late truth

from a dish towel

after spoiling supper.

You don't make up for this,

the rib is missing,

apple bit.

Sit sunken in a cornered couch,

watching His wash basin

circle the upper room.

Aqua Caliente

Hot water with kale and wide noodles

is soup.

Steep comfrey leaf with raspberry

for tea.

A basin with soap bar

makes a bath.

Only by itself is hot water

considered trouble.

Walk/Don't Walk

There's new blue paint

splattered in the crosswalk.

I don't know if its representation

of where Eula Long was hit,

or if its random pigmentation.

Fifty feet of pedestrian yo-yo,

the body whistles by,

an elder loon voice

broken by inattentive steel.

I heard the story

just a week before she died.

A lithographer, Eula went

to poetry seed when blind hands

refused paper and pen.

More barbed than the bark

of Saint Burbank's roses, her crone croon 

recorded "Cats and Doggerel",

just eight years short

of a very personal

century.

Roof Drums

Painted parrots border the ceiling,

expensive rubber roof

drums under rain,

sweet smoke of pecan wood

rises and reflected flickerings

play shadow puppet on the Persian-

Iranian carpet.

Home has moved indoors

for a season,

at brightest noon maybe

a cup of tea at the covered pool,

Saturday we'll gain back that hour

that would've helped me

at the bank.

Elections, play-offs,

birthdays, pumpkins,

short calendar, long

blankets, hour by hour

the breath draws closer

to frost. We don't rub our hands

together just to pray,

but we do pray.

Porch Light

Late summer, early evening bat

picks off no-see-ums

under circling swallows,

once again humidity reminds me

what i have in common with Banderas

is sticky t-shirts and jeans.

I down a bucket of iced hibiscus

and plot pennant races,

eager beaver stars

pop between whispering clouds,

ain't nothing here to hold

til it turns blue,

everythings numbered,

even the days til the stitches

come out of my dog's eye.

The command is to be still

and know which side the Bread of Life

is buttered on. Easier to face

in the face of a breeze, cricket chorus and solo

frog adding harmony to 

folded hands and bending knee.

Porch light plays out the night,

waiting for the prodigal,

robe folded in my lap,

the weight of a ring

turning cool in my palm.

Civics

The dog days are not

a month to me, unless

it rains, I stash plastic baggies

in my civic duty pockets 

and allow two morning leashes

to pull my shoulder sockets

to the curb.

The still orange sun bedazzles

dew wet tips of fresh mowed green

as a squadron of dragonflies

hums yellow and blue beside us,

the pup following a nose

with time leaps of its own,

the matron content to trot a long,

as long as I follow protocol.

I married into this privilege

of seemly suburban postcardism,

convicted by an Irish movie script,

"if ya cain't love a dog, ya cain't love anything."

For all my choir singing and grace before meals,

it's somehow very tidy

that the depth of my heart is known

by morning romps and brushings

and fresh water in a bowl.

Hand Span

It's not good for a man

to be alone,

except at the piano.

If your right hand offend thee

add a bass note.

Strolling blues,

the envy of angels,

hand span halleluiahs

crimp demons, double octaves

chase the devil from chorus

to coda.

Exchange the time clock

for a metronome

and you're home on seven

continents.

Bars and spaces

frame the soul,

long dead Europeans

and ghetto saints

lay out the truth

on black and white

keys to the kingdom. 

If Mama made you play

thank her today,

if she didn't,

she will.

Nickels and Dimes

Certain strengths from bone

to age depart.

The grip is tenuous,

shifting the cup

from His Hands,

"Take and drink..."

Swallow pride to commune,

no pinkie promise,

this is cross your heart

and guard the changed contents,

water to wine,

beauty for ashes,

house boy to husband,

tattooed roses for thorns.

Our betraying kiss is

wiped Maybelline clean,

the rooster stilled at dawn.

Grace is the refill,

a warmer, fresh brewed,

the breakfast croissant

broken for you

and for many,

baskets of biscuits and crumbs

gathered here together, worth more

than many sparrows

and sums.

Abandoned headlines and folded news

obscure an anonymous  

spread of coins 

on coffee stained formica.

Just enough change

to call home,

collect.

Roma

Time to measure months

in pestos,

first of the season,

multi birthday batch,

lunch back home from red eye flight.

I'm bent in the garden

gleaning each leaf of the basil

we brought up from seed.

What ever might be a monk in me

comes to bear as I groom

the straw thin branches and rub

pinched flowerlets

in my palm.

Even St Francis, the cemented guardian,

smiles as Jays and Chickadees

squawk for roosting rights

to his head.

In the cool of this

is when God walked with Adam,

salt shaker in His pocket,

ripe tomatoes 

on the vine.

Sundown on the Child

Suburban patriarch

puffs up florescent inflatables

and vacuums the pool.

Kids coming,

grandkids too,

reunion for most of us,

introduction for the intendeds 

and the baby.

Graduation is the cover,

envelopes and cameras,

the youngest is now a legit

know-it-all, her siblings hover

to praise and tease and eat.

The light of our world is freed

from roll call and on parade.

We watch her wave to the grandstand

and pray she adjusts her mirrors,

top down on the Volkswagen,

sundown on the child

raised up in the Way.

Dust to Must

Undone monks grapple

torn asphalt.

Cat shriek walls fall

in cement birthday layers

of caked infants,

mothers missing in mirrors,

a teacher's hand

flower pressed to a chalk

board of promise.

Emergency coffees riffle,

winged fingers make eye bridges.

The graves got greedy,

water drowned the bare mountains,

bamboo curtains slapped against

a window to the world.

We have long lost these uncles

of surging rice cups and water.

Shelter is a bag and sticks.

Family is any pulse in a storm.

Our living room is any part of a paycheck

in  relief.

The face of a nation

is held in the heart of a neighbor,

there's no denying two denarii won't do

what's due, but duty

isn't beauty, until it's you.

From dust, to must we

lift from the mud again, orphaned

resurrection from the suction

of martyred mire. 

The swinging Hand in the bucket

brigade is pierced,

its more than necessary now, to know

we're not alone.

Municipal Portion

I sprint to adjust the lawn watering

dervish device, illegal these many drought months

and then the day before a downpour,

I catch the outermost drops

on my satisfied boots.

There's a mortgage on

each blade of grass,

a second on the fence vines.

Our shade oak of righteousness

drinks in its municipal portion,

careful to stretch toward God

in a wireless sky.

The younger maple is spitting

a worrisome leaf curl,

the years old hurricane break

nearly exposed. Easy to see

not yet competing canopies

will make a front yard marriage

of trees, proud Papa, ever ready

at the rake.

Comes with Thorns

The vase is a pulpit

of the backyard rose,

snipped in prime

for appreciative sniffing

of the decorative predator.

Is it any wonder

it comes with thorns ?

The Lincoln, Stewart, American

Beauty burst to fragrance

of fresh torn black cherry

Jello pack.

We name ours after favorite

Red Sox Outfielder Coco Crisp

and bear the pollen stuffed nose

and sneeze as dues

of cultivation.

The storeboughts cause cancer

in Ecuador, pesticide runoff

suffocating fish.

The ugly cost of beauty

marring Mother's Day profits.

Long stems in the arms

of champions and queens,

we made this bed of

short sighted petals,

parading a legacy

of skin spotted

leaves.

Up Against the Call

"Our Father who..."

That's okay for you,

do you know who you're

talking to ?

Let's not quibble

about a man in the middle,

I am the me in

familia 

stiff neck hammer head

up against the Call.

Confess the mess. 

If it ain't broke

I'm not using it right,

talking 'bout my heart

it's supposed to be contrite.

Everything He's done for me

I'm taking it in stride,

little lower than the angels

but swelling up with pride.

Would I give a drink of water

to the least of these,

someone's son or daughter

could I heal their disease ?

O MY GOD

do you care about that ?

O MY GOD

don't scare me like that !

What's designed to connect us

been so blind it dissects us,

we all pretend we'd stand up to a tank

it's only on our knees

we have Someone to thank,

-the original Apostles took it to the bank

-but before the Holy Ghost 

-they're kissing up for rank.

He's the Big Brother man,

the care for each other Lamb,

look to the Lion and

join the race He won and ran.

Unchain the attitude,

show your wife some gratitude,

spare your kids the platitude.

A family's more than photos

ribboned in a box,

there's a key in the Blood we share

pouring through the locks.

Walk this mile in the sandals

we're unworthy to unlatch.

Remember He's the Fisherman

we're the daily catch.

"His Name art in Heaven"

hallowed,

is the game.

Due West

The geese don't know

they're Canadian,

tracking due west over

new growth red tip,

pollen spitting long leaf

and the waterway

of Echo Farm Golf Course.

I've got coffee brewed

for my eldest, who seeks

a wife today.

His Chevy half ton trekking

due west to Atlanta,

tracking a computer connection

from a Kenyan lady.

His alarm is

double past snooze,

the spaniel knows somethings up

even if he isn't yet.

It's first light now,

if this is a promise prepared,

we pray for sure election.

On the road to start a family,

Abraham, Joseph,

there's been some travellin' done.

I hear a zipper

close the duffel bag,

this time it's my

son.

San Quentin

Thieves come against locks

on windows, locks on doors.

Your heart can't be stolen

when you give it away.

If your hand be extended,

an inmate befriended,

the crime of isolation

caves in.

At the bars or behind 'em,

lonely is where you find 'em,

the trouble on their faces

is a sin.

We pretend we can't be busted,

convince ourselves we're trusted, but

it's only by His Grace

they let us in.

His Light is not to blind them,

your smile never random,

start by trading places

from within.

Catechism Coins II

The view of the Garden,

from God's windowsill,

has rows of hearts

unhardened,

blossoms of His Will.

Catechism Coins I

Our worship is imperfect

yet He translates it to song.

The treasure trembling in our voices

has been His Kingdom

all along.

Sling Song

The fall of a giant

is just a stone's throw away.

It's not the skill of the wind up

when you let go and let God,

the purpose of heaven,

rides on your arm

to the degree you ride

your knees.

A prayer is both weapon

and shield,

rising like incense

with a megaton yield.

Even a mocker

in his midnight of days,

will cross his heart

and hope to die

forgiven.

It's that simple

and more than the simple

apply.

Clear your throat

and your conscience,

sing the song of a boy with a sling.

Hurl your heart,

hard and high,

'til it lands

in His Hands.

Jamaica Jif

Dawn breaks a robin shell sky,

Achai fruit too high for stones,

twitters, warbles, flute loose

bag of feathered marble notes,

hard shelled insects

stitching the air, 

'til heat

stills all but mango leaves.

Bougainvillea climbs clouds above

hibiscus hide a bus stop,

azuring sea, 

turquoise tin shack,

rolled lavender currency,

hot plate cappuccino, 

sweet Betty cream

dissolves a sugar block.

Perfumed patio, Patois patter

moving forward on the left,

bare feet, bear the weight on the Rock.

Swaying cane sign say,

"Walk good, keep fatalities low."

Hummingbirds and orchids twine

in salute of tangerine nectar.

Missionary Sweets

Dust red eyes

huddle in charcoal smoke

under a Jacaranda tree.

Our matatu taxi

has already passed this glow,

and now another,

blackened corn and bananas

grilled with plastic ash.

We bump and slow, 

candy tossed like doves in the air

above good toothless soil.

The street boys clamor,

soap and tea to follow,

the heart built bridge

of international impact,

is brightly wrapped

and sugared.

"Suffer the little children",

we didn't know then

what we need to know now.

Bright as a lion, a single smile

fills our open window,

no longer Fatherless,

the future gains a Name.

 

Suitcase Suite

As you spread a sun song

across the island,

my arm curls your pillow.

I recite my evening prayers

and photographs of our future,

fall one at a time

from the corners of the sky.

Angels, on the ready,

list to the side of the window box, 

pacing myself, I lay out clothes

for a run to the airport.

Clock set,

the day that brings us together,

has already spent

its midnight.

With dawn, your ocean,

still warm in memory,

will wade to me forever,

and, softened to you,

I'll cast off the shell

that kept me

from the beach.

Beretta

I turn to see you rising

with the sun,

the number of days these hands

didn't touch you, are a rail of dust

between drawn blinds.

Slowly, caffeine and the Holy Ghost

bring my bones back

to the dance.

I remember a drum means

move this arm, the swinging hip,

once a signature,

begs for mercy.

There's yet a kiss here

and a doo-wop fit to turn tables.

Are you barefoot my Beretta ?

Maestro, 

rejoin our jukebox marriage.

Drop the moon like a quarter

and push my G7.

It's only hours 'til Friday night

and I've got nothing on you,

that breath

won't take away.

Promenade

In the alley, we raised

arms to flight,

matching the kiss we threw

through windows of skirts

and police search lights.

Outside the theatre,

the music, late from switching cars,

put strings on a drum

and hung horns from the balcony,

where I proposed.

You asked what my hands knew

when you bit me;

why my heart stood guard,

where are the ribbons

that held our hips 'til morning,

how is a rainbow going to press

between pages of chocolate ?

We've rehearsed this promenade,

and now to the moon.

No fanfare,  just the bride

a down beat

and groom.

When a man, meaning me,

loves a woman, meaning you,

he leaves her his skin

and walks raw in the world,

gathering bits of halo

to make a home.

What returns to him,

brighter than frosted breath,

is the purpose of sun on roses,

an altar of stars

in bloom.

Worthy Gloves

The brown boots of the man

who lives here

fill the garden gate

with promise.

I'll stand firm as a fern

and flower, make hay

in the blaze of morning glory,

temper the loam

in raised beds.

What becomes a man the most

is the woman he becomes a man for,

every shovel turned and tapped.

Snake coil hose

asleep in nasturtium,

scamper cat, chickadee twitter,

half canvas half leather,

worthy gloves slide along

the long wood handle, as chores

bend toward the Lord's sunset.

The hands inside the gloves,

the feet inside the boots

await our evening's pairing.

Left to left, right

to righteous,

drizzling sweat begins to dazzle

as the dance of jeans and cotton shoulders

becomes a wish

at the end of a candle.

Hummingbird Stop

Our red gladiolas

grow so close to the letterbox

they flag the mail carrier

to a hummingbird stop.

A stamp on the day,

postcard smile of a nephew

reading the box scores,

maybe mama needs news

of wrens loose in the kitchen.

Its all normal, Norman,

we pour five cent lemonade in 

forever cups and watch

the neighbors cinch lawn clippings

in neat nylon.

Not a shot fired,

not a screen door slammed,

sometimes, thank Jesus, the boogie man

just dances to the bass.

Pocket Full of Worms

In Carolina we cut berries

thick as nickels,

makes more noise than

an apple plopping in a bowl.

I can't say breakfast

will last 'til lunch,

but a cup of coffee seems 

to roll like Scripture

from a preacher's tongue.

I'm settling in to some Southren ways,

I can whistle up a mockingbird

and I know if you oil boil

a pampano fish,

it'll swell up like a poison dog.

The heart warms quicker than bones,

root beer floating beneath the flag

in a white rocker just because it's sunny,

and that bit about the morning

ain't no lie.

In fact a dawn bloom magnolia

make you feel as home as a robin

with a pocket full of worms,

and then one Saturday,

you're up hand mowing the lawn,

as if you always cared.

Janitor

A servant's heart

doesn't beat his chest,

hand towel and soapy water

bringing light to the eyes

of the weary,

bended knee pouring grace

over the feet of the wounded

and war torn.

Mopping up the sweat of the world,

every janitor on the planet

knows something of that.

Nobody looking when you change

the water to water

and keep wiping tears.

Picking up after the children of God.

It's child's play. Tag.

You're it. No

tag's back.

Taking a Turn

EMS vehicles screaming by my

window,

somebody's sunny day

taking a turn.

Angels with oxygen 

run up steps

check for vital signs...

ear to wisdom,

diligent hands,

a lamp onto thy feet...

My kitchen prayer shifts from chili

and crackers to the fate of a neighbor.

Background sirens just background

'til its our street,

'til its blood and breath,

life or death.

We trust the sterile gloves

to handle us, busy drivers

to pull aside, hospital doors,

shiny floors,

the technical, the medical...

Wheel the gurney into the new wing,

Intensive Prayer Unit,

the heart monitor reads two

or more gathered together,

mercy is a pulsing green line.

Flint

We've seen a little pain,

yellow McDonald's wrappers

more numerous than fish,

a missing row of crosses

aside the camouflaged road.

His Face set as flint

toward a new Jerusalem,

unarmoured innocents

slaughtered behind polling booth curtains.

The crusade's a broken record

written in a half language

shy of troublesome vowels.

A cup of water to the least of these

a silent, hidden page,

awaiting ink.

I tried tattooing scriptures

on my arms, but its the registered

heart that tells.

A pen is only mightier

than the sword

if you can read.

Short a Bloom

The March cardinal

keeps watch atop a budding pear.

Trill sergeant red above

the echoing trash men's

morning rounds.

Springer spaniel needs brushing,

loose matts of liver brown curl

scattered in the trees

for sparrow nests.

The tulip momento

of my Pastor's daughter's funeral

pushes through mud,

the yellow ones

we bought at market may blossom

sooner, but they won't match

the smile of her memorial

photograph.

A man of the cloth

cut no different from the rest.

This spring will gain a flower

but be short a bloom.

Lap of the Lord

I lay my head

in the lap of the Lord.

The wrinkled clay of my brow

smoothed by His thumb.

In my hair His breeze

is a blue blanket to my soul,

His sunlight warm silk 

to my face.

The weight of my worries

gives way to prayer.

The problems of my bones

absolve in song. The bricks

around my heart become berries

to spread on toast.

All the sins of my tongue,

every boast, insult, and lie

melt into broth and butter.

As I lay my head in the lap of the Lord,

my eyes trace the Hand that moves the stars,

my ears echo with a brook voice

breaking over stones, even my toes

are glad in clover.

Let me vow to walk every corner I've cut

again, heel to toe,

straight and narrow.

Raise in me, dear God,

the artistry to repaint

every wall I've beat my head

against.

I'm hungry now for the soup

I cried in. Let me blow

on the spoon of grace You give us,

bow my head

and dip my bread.

Amen.

Marbles

You can mumble

into marbles,

grumble over peas,

stumble from your tiptoes

while you fumble for your keys,

tumble like a gymnast or

bumble like the bees,

as long as you are humble

you're heard.

Even if your tummy rumbles

He answers prayer.

When Color Goes Missing

The light of longest day

occurs in June,

when color goes missing

we call it night.

Dip our brush

in depths scooped out of us.

There's more room for wind.

Bible says we're clay,

we'll hold water 'til we break.

Drop the phone.

Let it echo in the canyon

eroding through us.

When my mom died

I started smoking Camels

on her grave.

When I heard about yours,

I quit.

Color to Cloth

Recycled wool splits the eye

of the hooking needle

to be plied into dragon rugs,

yellow scales rescued

from forgotten mittens.

The Spirit of the Lamb

spins the wheel

that brought these fibers

to my mother's hands.

Long coats of depression and

pants legs of sub-zero temperatures

find themselves in rose bush

or sea gull wing.

Bankers hang her carousel carpets

between sweeping surveillance cameras,

Turkish blue talismans soar

above Hopi sand snakes.

Taking the task of color to cloth

she'd soak and steam

a single sock to strain

strands of charcoal shade.

Investigating the promise of flight

these woven shreds afford,

I sit on my rug from Ma,

consecrating the umbilical skein

of heirlooms.

Thicker

His blood's thicker

than troubled water,

that much we already knew.

His blood's thicker than Pepsi,

I tell ya that's good news,

for the generation.

His blood's thicker than

cowboy coffee

boiling under the stars,

thicker than a Guiness

'tween a drunken driver's knees.

His blood's thicker than a sea

of sorrow, thicker than

the tears of all tomorrow, thicker than

a tide of grief or the pride

of a thief.

His blood's thicker than bad blood

between brothers, brother.

It's thicker than your skull,

thicker than skin,

gratefully, we drink it all in.

When we empty our hearts

its His cup we fill,

sweating the details in the olive garden,

bowing

to our Father's will.

By One

My father's last breath

will follow

his next to last

by one.

My father's last breath

won't have the will

to cool a tea cup,

but it will change heaven

and earth

by one.

My father's last breath

will leave us looking at the lake,

the lake evaporating

to make clouds,

the clouds going dark

to make tears.

Eternity will begin

with this last breath.

Wheat and chaff,

the only consequence

worthy of our soul,

separated, one by one,

by the One.

Pillow Talk

It's only after midnight

you can force the clock to jump.

Ask the minutes to miss

a tock or two.

My neck is stiff,

muscles sore from pushing

the days away away.

Break two eggs in a pan for one.

Calendars get filled

tearing away pages,

moon becomes new

vaulting the pines.

 

Only an empty man

is full of himself.

This is sleep without you,

pillow talk

beneath my breath.

Jesus in Jeans

Jesus in jeans

isn't much of a stretch,

tool belt, thermos,

some decent boots.

He might shave for Sunday

sit in the back pew

of every church in the world

and smile at the preacher.

He's an everyday Saviour these days,

raising our spirits,

raising our sights.

Story is He overheard a cafe conversation,

"O halfway houses are a good idea,

but not on my street."

Jesus leaned in,

paid for the gentleman's coffee

and whispered, "According to My Father

the whole world's a halfway house.

Don't forget to tip

the waitress."

He's an everyday Saviour these days,

donating blood, again.

Every time we lift a finger to help

we're helped.

What would Jesus do without us ?

Truth is He couldn't stand it.

That's why He stands at the door...

ready to knock some sense of Him

into the heart of the world.

Counter Top

Always a spoon for sugar,

never a pinch,

get something that sweet

on your fingers

Mama make you wash your hands.

Salt is something

a cook can rub together,

smile come across your face

cool as a cloud of Vidalia onions

and sweet celery.

People with real jobs

get equal at lunch,

briefcases and bandanas

led by their bellies.

Day will come

we'll pass our hearts

easy as pepper

at the Lord's Table.

Right now, eyes big as

sliced tomatoes,

we put in our order

and wait for grace.

Too Familia

My daughter flips

earmarked magazines

from a chair in the lobby,

a mountain of brooding men

modeling revolutionary colognes

and capture the world watches

in half dressed leather rooms.

I won't whisper to her

but hope she hears me,

"Don't expect the world

to be the world to you,

every piece has been sold,

everything touchable marred."

We pay the insurance,

make a bond to collect her due.

In all her years I might shape this minute

or that, pass on a smile,

the wealth of a psalm.

We hope and we know we hope,

we lift eyes and head each morning

to the mockingbird's trumpet.

Some of the day's march

falls silent on our knees.

If I could hand her love in alabaster

velvet smooth and white,

a cup to catch the tears of Jesus,

holy water for her branch giving leaf,

then I'd be a father worthy.

Sand and pearls will

make her song.

Distance keep the war from hurting.

Dinners with grace and the boyfriend

careful to care,

I buckle as she drives us

home.

Mandatory Eight

I circled today to stop lying.

I'll need to make another mark

to surrender snide,

pick a date to bury

the fake New York accent,

lay the sharp tongue

and Woody Woodpecker laugh

to rest.

Don't speak when hungry

except to say, "I'm hungry."

Don't speak when lonely

except to say, "I'm lonely,"

"Tired" when tired.

A mute button

would be bionic mutation,

what better machine than

a scale to weigh my words,

a vision of my voice in the world

as perceptive of sour notes

as American Idol judges.

This different drummer,

unsteady in time,

skips from the lightness

of laying down the mask.

As I step through the ropes

for the knock out punch,

my ears perk to the bell

ringing true.

Fits the Hammer

A boy's hand

fits the hammer

shy of his father's grip.

You grow into this business.

Center the nail

plane the planks,

doors, chairs, tables,

sign your name in sweat and sawdust.

Easy to daydream,

hope swinging from a tool belt

on the pegboard,

someday all this

will be all there is to it.

A beach girl

eyes the line of blue wind

and water,

her mom measures the clouds

for storms.

The difference between them

will narrow with years,

today's sunshine and sky,

the one thing they'll wear

forever, whether the house is full

of dreams, screams

or memories.

If it were only that,

buttering bread

and naming kittens,

we'd all be kings in castles

and our children saints.

But homes are broken,

holidays divided,

the most we hope for

is half of what we had.

Losers weepers.

Brother's keepers.

The ounce of prevention

roots underground.

An army of the other cheek turned

springs eternal from the empty grave.

He's charged us to carry the cloak in danger

a geography of extra miles.

Pick up where we're crossed

and swallow free,

there's only so much a cup

can hold until

it runneth over.

Sky-Stomach of God

Today  the butterflies are flying scared

the butterflies fly scared today

in the belly of God.

Butterflies fly scared

in the sky-stomach of God,

blue powder, gold powder wings

torn like the ozone layer.

Among a ring of monarchs

a petition circulates,

billions of butterflies needed

to fly in formation

above Antarctica snow.

The crimson rose of Ceylon,

the windmill of Nepal,

spearwinged cattle heart of Venezuela,

Burma's jungle glory,

blue adonis of Latvia,

purple spotted swallowtail

the island butterfly of New Guinea,

Mexico's figure eight and the Grecian shoemaker,

the red lace wing Filipino

and the sky blue morpho of the Amazon,

Nicaragua's blue doctor,

the clipperhead of Vietnam,

Hong Kong dragontail,

the button jewel of Dublin

and the Berlin emperor.

Butterflies in a row,

a living thread

to sew

the atmospheric wound.

saxopoem

To expand my tiny heart

I go to the woodshed.

In an expression of empathy

with everything awkward,

I take in air

and let loose through the brass

bell of a soprano saxophone.

When my embrochure squeaks

I wrinkle my brow

to feign intensity.

Hoping to claim a serpentine charm

I begin each hour's lurch

with a long single note,

alone in a minaret

I call myself to prayer.

In tremolo,

I imagine legions of men

dropping the walls of our stubborn

private Jericho.

Brothers in circles playing

saxophones to learn what moods swing

when we come home from work.

Brothers playing saxophones

in compassionate schools.

Mentors humming harmony, as

the I am responsible reed section

mixes courage, saxophoning and air, 

expanding

the practised hearts

of men.

The secure test of hammocks

Never alone when we read,

always alone when we write.

Worst fear

is can't afford

a lessor one either.

A lesson is what prevents

a lessor one

from climbing the list.

I sin less in the kitchen

than other rooms,

the eye consumed

with small beads of air

in the honey.

The ghost of mama's spoons

whisk me away.

I have a minute

to pen a poem.

I have a pen,

just a minute,

it's a poem.

Early encompasing dark,

the Devil would say perpetual,

sunlight warmer through glass

and the grace to set ink

on a page, proves its not.

Time with,

time for,

all secondary queries to

Who is time from ?

A day of blue

sun baked

I've been drinking it all day

as He fills the cup.

What we did to someone here,

not even a footnote

to what He did to get us clear.