Between the Two

I’m gone, I just thought I’d leave this note.
I did want to go though
I did not want to leave you.
Odd the paradox of life and I’m
glad to be shed of the ability
to mourn you
and long for God.
My sin is placing myself
between the two
Loving you

Partake

The table, candle lit, the wax candles glorious white
the shaft of golden light.
Endless the table,
clothed in brilliant white,
woven in
the gold and silver.
Upon each plate the nourishment
for each brother and sister.
Over head the battle rages
and below our feet, unfelt,
the river of hell.
Those who stand and will not sit
jibber about the justice
of it all
as if they know her by her name.
Take your place, give solemn
thanks
partake.

I Love You

Perhaps you weary of me, yes perhaps you do.
I don’t blame you.
The shouts of the planet bringing down
your ancient city
and me – but let me explain,
I whisper, I will not shout, nor will
I wave my arms for your attention.
I love you.
The battle wages and your culture digs
into the strength they gained from
always being on the outside.
But I love you.
I do.

That Ends It All

I grab the dagger by the blade and tighten my grip,
then pound my fist upon the ground and watch
the crimson of me spread.
Die.
They call me a criminal and spit upon
the dust that I’ve become.
We are conquered when we
conquer.
But before I die
I will step into the sanctum
of the fat, my right hand
wounded and dripping blue
and with my left hand
warrior
strike the blow
that ends it all.

Disbelieve

I often wonder of the wonder.

Fresh water, deep and cold

the snapping sound of wooden ships

the swell of sails drenched in salt

capturing the saltless sky.

What madness – fresh water.

No vision of shore to shore-

stranded upon the water. 

Cold that cleans and a silence

never seen again.  To face death

with that memory made men and women.

But the land has faded as we have

not evolved but regressed.  Our spirit

suicide – determined, not afraid,

to disbelieve. 

Place

Perhaps drawing strength from a place is a sin.

But I’ve given up on people.

She wades in upon the land and sings in the night.

A wicked age yet strong, she wraps her arms about

me and freezes my heart.

“Now go.”

I do until I thaw, weeping fresh water, parching myself

until salt, in hard crystals, form upon my face. 

I want to live what is right – so I pray and draw

strength from place -

 

The Hunt

It’s the West that has altered who I am,
the Cross that defines me.
The culture is often the land, the
softly spoken words of God that merges
body, soil, soul.
They are familiar to me, the wolf and the owl.
The two post of my bed, the great gray; his and her
head shelter the books over my head.
Along my body the gray wolves settle down to stand guard
their heads upon their paws and the whine
of urgency within their throats.
The hunt comes,
The hunt soon comes.
The Eagle circles overhead.
He lifts himself high into the mountains
rides the currents of air so thin, so fresh
only faith keeps him aloft.
He swoops down in flashing speed and calls to me
The wolf and the owl, cry in reply
Not yet, son but soon the hunt is on.
Soon all of us will pull the body,
dig up the soil
repair the soul.

God Gives

what could possibly destroy the dust;
the wind that blows the choke into the corners,
blinds the eyes, coats and soaks the skin?
What could destroy the dust that destroys
us?
Look hard, look hard beloved, as the flowers fades.
Crimson red in stones of gray, the smell of
salt and the women’s skirts sway in the breeze.
Keep all of these.
For each one fades as you fade; this frightens
me.
I fear death in only that is separates us further
I can not jump this chasm
so I fret about what I cannot alter and shout
warnings that the dust covers, muffles, and chokes.
The devil himself chortles.
I break down every once in awhile to pray-weep.
You dance, hold tight the waist of her next to you,
I’ll hunt with the spirit wisdom God gives

I shall Continue

I’ll knit a shirt of red, soaked in tears.
I’ll sew a shirt of blue soft as the spring time air
I’ll knit a shirt of white the color of mourning.
In the islands she sold her spinning wheel
for her love’s sword of steel
in the north we had at one time the space
to disappear.
Now I’m old and think I have been born too
late.
The she wolves lie down beside me in the night
the owls perch upon my right and upon my left.
We wait for the end.
I will rise up with a shout and die face first.
The spinning wheel crushed, the sword driven
deep within the earth
The wolf and the owl, spirit strong forever
with me. My last words?
I shall continue

Lover

A lover,
Teacher,
The touching of minds
Must be physical
Transcend space.
Complete – you complete the tearing
Apart of me.
I know, I’ve been at your command.
Still am-
Still in pieces
At odds with right and wrong
And the idea of love smoothing over the wounds.
The only difference between me
Now and then-
I’m content to remain
Alone.