pharisees (hands)

what do your hands do
besides point?

yes
they pray

but do they sow
seed?

do they sew
bandages?

do they break
bread
for mouths
not your own?

do your hands
teach

do your hands
heal?

keep your fingers
busy with the business
of the church

with your politics
and condemnation

but do not point to them
those women

whose hands are busy
not just their fingers

doing the business of God

whose hands are so full
they cannot stop to point
and simply do

***this one has been cooking for a few months

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testimony

 

she spins and balances on
something so slim
as if it is air and not substance
lifting her up
under the weight of
all those eyes

those eyes not seeing
practiced strength
powering her rehearsed flights
over and on that beam
so often
to do this one more time
is automatic as breath
her body knows
the motion so well

she cannot trust eyes
dazzled by camera flashes
while muscles work against gravity
and through it
as feet land
in perfect proprioception

not only strength
but grace works here

or is it faith
that flawlessly knows position
and velocity

trust of body
and surrender of spirit
as she gives God
glory for
this floating dance
of repetition

another prayer of movements
one embodied moment
among many
enacted practices
of faith

 

Posted in New Free Verse, Religion and Spirituality | Tagged , , , , , | 16 Comments

for beauty’s sake–original and pantoum

So–this is a poem I wrote back in 1985 originally:

A flowershop rosebud opened too soon
your petals crumble to ash
in my palm

traces of gray I carelessly brush
from my fingertips

***and here it is reworked into pantoum form, just for fun.

false as a flowershop rosebud
forced open too soon
your petals dry and crumble
in my palm

forced open too soon
past blooming and palled
in my palm
scent blown off  by breath

past blooming and palled
traces of gray
scent blown off by breath
I brush from my fingertips

traces of gray
your pinks dull to ash, as
I brush from my fingertips
a bloom unfit for keeping

your pinks dull to ash, as
your petals dry and crumble
a bloom unfit for keeping
false as a flowershop rosebud

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waking up in the middle of a poem

I do not dream poetry

my bones speak it
while I sleep

pipe sound
like a fugued whisper
murmuring through veins
quiet as blood
but more metered,
carried to where
words are shaped awake

before dreams snap closed
completely
and eyelids open
lips framing
the phrase over
and over

without glasses on
writing blind
before the image
melts in sunlight

 

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Pantoum (before)

I do not remember innocence.
I was never in any first garden,
This life sprung from dust and breath blended
Before I knew death was hungry.

Our bonding was never ideal.

I was never in any first garden,
Tasting temptation and finding it sweet
Before I knew death was hungry
And death grinds our bones for bread.

Already fallen, the last time together.

Tasting temptation and finding it sweet
On my lips a fruited kiss-stung acid
And death grinds our bones for bread
That beauty is in the breaking of.

Or did we dance, holding fruit already bitten?

On my lips a fruited kiss-stung acid
This life sprung from dust and breath blended
That beauty is in the breaking of.
I do not remember innocence.

Our bonding was never  ideal.
Already fallen, the last time together.
Or did we dance, holding fruit already bitten?
Some knowing is worth any price.

***for dverse poetry prompt:  Pantoum.  I am starting to think I am no good with poetry forms… http://dversepoets.com/2012/08/02/form-for-all-pantoum/

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dust

rain
is a tease
when dirt rises
to spin in vision
like small dervishes
dancing prayers

or hides between roots

never enough water
to fill wells

to feed these sticks
I planted

& there
I can see it
the great lake dwindles

to skim the edge
off our thirst

but I still taste dust
in my mouth

with each breath

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , , , | 14 Comments

when you smile my name

this feeling opens
from the toes up
hums joy
deeper than sweet

more gentle
than any hands

& belongs to you

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , | 14 Comments