I am a Junkie.

An addict

drug-sick, covered with sores,

I cannot sleep, helpless,

lying in my gutter staring up

at a featureless sky.

You are my Drug.

The memory of you.

Your smell…

I swear I still smell you on my fingertips,

I long to taste your sweat again.

Lie with you in the forbidden dark.

Now I wander

lost in the back-alleys of our past

searching for my fix.

une ode sur la folie de l'amour!*

You are my heroin.

Broken.

I pray to God,

Take me.

Take this bloody poison from me!

Cleanse my body. Ease my spiteful soul.

Lay me down by the road so I may sleep.

Feel the pull as the earth spirals into the sun

Watch as the stars in heaven begin to go out

I am become

Shattered.

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*an ode on the madness of love

When you lost your voice

She sat silently commanding you to speak

reproaching you with just a glance, yet

Her hands run through your hair

sending kinetic charged particles

down your spine. She says,

I am God.

You say:

God Bless Us All. We Are All Sad Lonely Children.

Why do we run from love?

You cry out, “Oh God, why am I such a fool?”

She just looks at you with sad eyes.

You say:

“Why did my love turn away when I needed her most?

Oh God, why would you let me believe

in something like magic?”

God casts Her eyes away and points to the blank page.

Love does not protect you from doing the wrong thing

And God won’t let you sleep until you’ve said confession

You say:

“Oh God, could you not hear me cry out?”

God stares down like thunder. She takes your breath

away like the wind before the storm comes

crashing in the trees; smashing the waves on the shore

wind roaring like madness in the darkness lit only by angry flashes

of lightning that freeze your face in fear, you cover your ears

and bow your head before God’s fury.

And yet…

And yet She lifts you up with Her eyes. Her hand brushes your cheek.

God is the eternal mystery that is love.

You are just beginning; She is the alpha and omega.

You take a breath and then begin to write.

The birds stop singing when I reach the top of the trail

Where the turtles cross, see the sign for cars to slow,

You must keep your eyes open and take care,

as you may come around the corner just a bit too fast,

and you won’t see where the turtles cross.

Scientists say there are more trees on the planet

than stars in our Galaxy, so the earth must breathe

providing everything to Gaia as she needs,

nutrients flow to her leaves from the soil at her roots

as the sun’s rains rises through the firmament

grabbing color from the air and from the sea at dusk,

the earth’s rotation pulling the day forward,

tells the turtles when it’s safe to cross.

What are you grieving? A long-ago chance?

a place where we walked, the turtles curled in the mud

rain spilling on our heads from the trees above

the earth sliding slowly in its orbit while spinning madly

we can barely hang on; we cling tightly

to time and memory and to precious faces radiant

in the golden afternoon sun. a long-ago birthday.

what is more important to you; what was?

or what might have been?

The misty trail smells of rot and new life coming

sleeping in the muck that sucks at our shoes

pulls us down, see the world through turtle’s eye:

mythical beasts come hurtling through a terrible night

Gaia is singing to us on the shore in the radiant moonlight

calling us out of the mud calling us to dance with stars

calling on our little ones to run fast, fast as they can

hear the sea roar pointing the way home, hear the pounding

surf that rocks me to sleep tenderly, gently,

while the raindrops fall from the leaves.

I can feel the weight of you pressing me down

I keep telling you:

Poetry doesn’t live on the page, it lives in the air

Like the flowers in your garden

That rise in the morning and fade by evening

turning brown and twisted

Pressing me down through the earth

Seeking the roots where life begins

Where the soil is dark and fragrant between your fingers

God commands me to love, even when it’s so hard

Even when I can’t understand the meaning of it all

Even when the plans fly into the towers

Even when the terrorists rape and kill

Even when the bombs fall on the children

sleeping in their beds.

He commands me to love the people I want to hate

I feel his silent judgement through space and time

We’re guaranteed nothing

And the reward is just strands of light

filtered through the leaves.

We grasp and cling and hang on to each other as though

We are but flowers that rise in the morning

And fade by the evening.

The weight presses me down through the ground

down to where life begins

He commands me to love the beginning

and the end

and all the messy bits between

He commands me to love but spares me understanding

The weight pushing me down

where it’s dark and fragrant,

The soil crumbling beneath my fingers.

I return to molecules, then into atoms,

finally, particles of light

that spin away becoming

some new world in his vast universe.

God,

you are never going to show me the sign,

are you?

My silent God.

I always must guess

what you’re thinking.

Apparently, certainty is for others,

for me, I just make mistakes.

I lay in my bed and stare at the ceiling,

until, giving up, I get up

and grab my pen,

as though my pitiful musings

amount to a hill of beans.

Strange, isn’t it,

how poets think they know things

that others can’t see?

It’s all a bit silly

this pretend game we play.

God,

won’t you let me rest?

ease my doubts,

let me slip away

to a deep dreamless sleep.

To a new day,

a new man,

certain of my fate!

At last the sky starts to lighten,

I can hear the birds

begin to sing.

So, I’ll make another cup of tea

and begin again.

And maybe today is the day

my reluctant God

will begin to speak.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter

another silence in the long afternoon.

Count to ten,

Say I’m sorry.

The heater goes tic, tic, tic,

as the day cools down.

It’s time to feed the cat.

I always forget.

Forget to get the good stuff,

The kind he likes.

He looks at me with a question,

I stroke his tail to answer.

Today becomes tomorrow,

Days stretch forward and back again.

We end up where we began;

waiting for you to call in the long afternoon.

My doctor asked if I were a poet.

I was suddenly speaking in rhyme,

she said, “Turn your head and cough.”

“No, no” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

listening to my heartbeat,

studying my response,

she said, “what is this strange obsession?”

puzzled by my nonchalance.

a dozen rhymes spill from my pocket,

while searching for spare change.

a little posey, quickly forgotten,

that look in your eye, dark & strange.

mote of dust, tick of fluff,

studied with a delicate hand.

lost feather, a seashell, bit of bone,

a boy’s hidden treasure, tiny & grand.

The diagnosis was quick,

though treatment was by degree.

She dashed off the prescription,

the cure was worse than the disease?

A strange malady has befallen me,

my heart can break one more time!

The surprise was how easy it was,

I should see that as a sign.

She smiled, “Your numbers look fine.”

the good is up, the bad is down,

we’ll see you in a few months’ time,

that is -- if you’re still around.

I gather my things as

reality slides away.

the urgent ding, the world burns,

I stumble back into my day.

I want you to feel my heart one more time

make the tiniest thing grand,

lose myself in this madness,

one more touch of your hand.

One more breath out, and one

more in. Lay your hand

on my chest & just like that

we begin again.

Tuesday morning & I’m back to being dead.

falling in my dream and lying on the floor

I wake with a start,

I’m a corpse, my useless limbs fall away,

scattered in pieces all around me.

Monday – you held me with your eyes

& said, ‘I’ll be here when you get back’

but we both knew what that meant.

Sunday was the day for sinning.

shouting & crying, till we fell over horse,

laughing like the gods.

Saturday, we sat cross-legged before the dancing box

sugar bombs turned the milk brown & sweet,

filling our restless eyes when we try to sleep.

Wednesday morning & I rise from the dead.

& gather what pieces I can find.

Thursday is the day for soulful prayer,

chanting the old song over & over,

hallelujah, hallelujah,

hallelujah, hallelujah.

Friday, I gather my brush & palette

and sit by the wayside, waiting for the light.

my gift to you of shadow & delight.

Crayon on paper,

a bit of color smudged about.

my thumb’s a brush, my hand’s a color wheel,

my heart spills onto the canvas.

the sun on your hair like gold.

Crayon on paper,

a fragmentary memory

you with your golden hair.

a few strokes to capture a day

lost in time though the color remains.

And remember the day

you foretold when I would die

but you never said a word?

silence & grief; turn to sight,

shadow & form -- death & light.

Whisper it quietly, quietly,

hallelujah, hallelujah,

hallelujah, hallelujah…

It feels like rain today

clouds gather at the edge of the afternoon.

We’re standing awkwardly before shuffling in,

that old smell of glitter & glue, young boys sweat.

Dads shush the young ones,

mom stuffs her purse beneath the folding chair.

Outside the wind is rustling in the corners

like an anxious child.

And in the next silence you begin.

Imagine hearing Chopin play his nocturne for

the first time.

The lords & ladies in the court

all held their breath at

the sight of you.

First, I fell in love with your hands,

your fingers barely touch the keys,

bent over in a curve of concentration

your eyes seeing

something only you could see.

Fat raindrops fall on the dusty windows

washing away our sins in this holy moment.

Afternoon turns to evening

It may rain tonight, people are saying,

looking up at the sky.

Rushing the kids to the car, let’s go!

We drift off into the night.

That’s a lifetime ago, now I just close my eyes

and lean into the night

straining to hear the nocturne

I heard so long ago.

Another storm is gathering,

I can feel it,

rain is coming in from the east.

I would reach out to touch you if I could,

feel your hair again.

Your hands in mine,

Our fingers entwined,

playing out the notes of the nocturne

as though for the very first time.

Keeping us safe.

Hearing the wind shuffle our fates

as the evening sky finally turns to rain.

I woke up in my church this morning.

It was quiet waiting for the voice of god.

I woke up early in my church this morning.

I close my eyes to light or dark.

I always look away from the clock.

Woke up early this morning.

To thin myself out,

so the hand of god may pass through me.

Without Resistance. To the early light.

The early morning light.

The early morning light.

I remember the light in that crappy little bedroom.

the broken blinds on the crappy little window.

We were both so lonely.

I always..., I almost always…,

I never look at the clock,

you can hear it fade in and out.

as the choir begins to sing.

I woke up in my church this morning.

close my eyes to hear the singing.

My hand is out to feel the air,

Why can’t I remember things as they were.

My fingers trace your shape

in the light,

in the early morning light.