we go unbroken

Strike our heads together
and like a match we
flare with flame.

Slip our hands
between us
and like rope
we go unbroken.

Share the spirit
and like nothing this
world can touch
we find souls
that leave these skins
behind
and climb
toward what our lonely needs
could never see

or believe
or reach.

Firelight

The fire cracked open the deep crevices of his face. Firelight, firelight on and under and in the remnants of his face. Firelight dragged up what he once was; young, passionate, able to press the muscles of his insistence on the course of the world and change it’s path. Once he uprooted his family to travel on the wings of the Gospel, twice he dug up his family, three times and more for the cost, for the glory. The firelight borrowed him its glowing so that in it, his old glory shone. But youth, and fire burn to cold.

Now he sleeps at the fire and though the flame shines, he is old. He does not move, not to new towns. When he moves it is to summon great energies upon himself to paint. He drives through the few places that know him and people throw jobs at him. First this door to fix and then this room to scrub and paint. A new energy is on him as in age he learns to build chairs, and in broken families he paints a fresh coat of heritage red on the door frame. The mundane man who nightly dreams of when he had visions, now holds visions, like a brush in his hand. Like a small golden pellet of glory in his hand is the single stroke of up as he paints what he used to pray; redemption

Tears are in our Kisses

I find tears in our kisses
and while still you say goodbye
begins the missin.
For tight is held the evening bond
of eyes and lips and life's first words
above
beyond
cerebral bonds of bodies
and the messes
of all your old damsel's dresses
Their distresses do not hold us
no more
no more
do not hold us
no more

Morning

In morning: mourning
In mourning: morning
Where you dwell
in another's eye
in another's heart
we part there

and before I see a tree
and before I pour
light's first cup of tea
I paint your face inside my eyelids
and clasp handfuls
of the only words
that ever came to me,
came to me before you saw me
these words that built me
before you drew me
loved me before you knew me.

Over shoulders we read come evening
when Word and You draw in
one page one night one moment
held
til we expire

sun

Inside the sun I hide my hands
and burrow down my face
Close eyed holiday mind
has died to thought, to care
to want
but to shuffle slowly always
edging toward the sun

When motion is removed
from thought, we glide,
we edge,
close to heat, to light
to sun.

Short a Dollar

I'd love to build your world with you
search at night with torches through
our streets my child, my little one
watch over you breathless while you run.

Three dollars short and full of faith
but where's your father?- he's not yet come
babe of ours, he's not yet come

A busy man he is you'll see,
I'll rock you, rock you in my heart
there are options still you see
for him to seek, to bleed, to beat.

The milk of dreams and playtime seems-
but where's your father?- he's not yet come
-to keep us strong til morning springs
but where's your father?- he's not yet come
babe of ours, he's not yet come

Sunday best

Gathered holy clothes off the
Sunday floor,
shades down darkness
let linger a touch of time to prime us

Scrubbing faces and fingernails
for church
we search familiar streets
to find the seats that
wait to meet us and our borrowed sorrows

One sigh and
alltheweekisgone
we weave our thoughts and graces
into sacred spaces
mumble words-not yet words
and unformed prayers
prepared for us to breathe

Together touch
peripheral lovers
watching Love
and waiting.