Hollow

She cried into the tree hollow.
She felt every bit
the small one of the forest that night.
She wasn't a young deer, though.
She had been out of the herd for a while.
She looked up at the trees:
Thr oaks were creatures
not delighted with her presence.
She wasn't sure why she called
out into the hollow
of a tree of all things.
She'd just thought
that someone would
hear her and wonder at
her cry.
Earlier, she'd gone by the herd
where her father stood: his head high and swung back.
And she'd cried out to him:
It was deep and from
the pit of her.
And he'd pranced off for berries,
disappearing into the light, the way only he could.

Surprise On a City Street

Eighteen hours and you were here.

And they were surprised in the middle of the night,

there was enough light to see:

creation.

They wonder at the construction

of fingernails

and pupils.

It is enough

to withstand

the excrement and the pulling

hard on the bodies.

Grasping for the milk as if he were digging, digging...

Then there is the wide-mouthed-animal-screaming-him.

But…
On this long walk,

he is graffiti,

or loopy messages

discovered

in concrete

when they pause.

Breath

Little ones touch the nativity.
Mary's birthed:
the breath that will move the dirt into place.
No grubby crook of an arm
could stop this.
Salty in our mouths, bloody in our mouths...
A groan.
For a moment,
I can't do it.
But you...
Precious you...

Cemetery Stop

His grave

used to have roots growing

out of the stone.

But they had it cut back, those American tourists:

appalled, they were

at the choice

to let the greenery

grip it with its

dirty hands.

“It was as if “they” didn’t care,” the tourists said.

“They” just knew

that thick skin

And candy and money

Lay crumpled under

the grave.

The tourists hated

the thin cross most of all.

“Oh, if only there were angels carved there,” the tourists said.

Gratitude

You say, Lord, our body

is dust.

Mess on the floor

is all I am.

With your swift

broom,

you can remove

me.

That’s it.

A fade

behind your blinds...

But

my soul…

Oh, my soul…

The trinity part

with the deep whisper

prays

and

prays

for

the filth.

Thank you.

List
that contains
the infractions
of the
woman
You place it squarely down
next to her potter's wheel.
The clay coats her dry hands.
The skin splitting open
to reveal
the blood.
She thinks
hard about the cracks in
her days.
You think,
too
about your days:
about your Sunday best
when you skim
those words,
thinking:
"How could she?"
And the spirit
answers:
"Grace, you, grace."

Calm

Dishwasher hums

I am a like a soldier who is in between battles

Watching the movie of the war

It's a trick.

I am not good, the brain said

at sitting still,  as the neurons

do the "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy."

Double Life

Laundry stuffed into the basket of words in my brain
must sustain this strange love
for creation, innovation
can't stop
made time
in between
the child 
and the vacuum cleaner
because
of my own humanity
and him and her
next to me

Want

A woman steals a fistful of jewels that make her fingers bleed.
Another pulls the baby from the tummy
of another,
extracting her happy
with her sweaty fist.
an expedition on foot
through ancient cities while
another says goodbye
She watches and grabs the hair for the ponytail, her wrinkled fingers red. Her heart is in a hot air balloon
far away from
the light
that knew
the
dust.

Morning Exercise

Legs that I remember are vine-like make their
way through the bushes.
Stroke one and another stroke
Built like a tank, I know.
Finding solace in my tank
Another fat molecule
Another piece of cake
I hike
I hike

My First Blog Post

I listen to conversations: I hear about the boastful professor's discoveries or the woman who has gone through a divorce. I am fascinated by movement: the raindrops like snails making their way across the window in the car, or the musician carrying his instrument in the airport. I must write it down if it feels like a mosquito bite that I have to scratch. I am starting this blog to show you the starting place for a lot of writers: that thing we must write down. It will be like getting a look inside my journal. Not surprisingly, this will be scary for me. Some of it will be poetry, some of it story, and some of it thoughts. I am a Christian so my faith will often be woven into my writing. I hope you enjoy reading this blog. My first entry is below:

The chorus sang behind me.

Their voices are barren tunnels.

You pour the drink till there is a holy pool in your liver.

Hallelujah to no king, you say.

Instead it’s a quick aahhh...

Just another dollar to go there…

That’s enough for it all to feel like thorns – a daring act.