Taboo

I washed your dark curls of hair in a sink.
You did not know, I hope you never do
And that is why the water ran with ink;
Perhaps my mind will wash the image too.
You were unaware that I had found you
With naked wreaths of hair, unbuttoned shirt,
And a smile, a simple smile, bathed in blue;
You were beautiful, but the sight still hurt.
I could only gasp in shock and avert
Eyes from the horror of that lovely scene.
That I would find this picture might assert
Some cruelty in fate’s two-fingered machine.
With a lover’s care, with pain and dismay
I caressed your hair, washing it away.

Maker

I love the simple balance of nature
That lives without kings or democracies
– Only divine instinct, rivers and trees.
I love all, watch long and long, leaves and fur.
The scent of sweet frankincense and of myrrh,
Of rain, of forest, and of every flower;
All this I love, and every gleaming hour
As no other hour could ever occur.
The Hand that has so shaped and formed all things
And works the bellows that breathe in the soul,
This Hand that holds within my life and death,
Was no clumsy hand. Who, after all, brings
Art to life, but a master pure and whole?
So I love all He works with every breath.

Inside This Little Heart of Mine

Inside this little heart of mine
a universe resides

I don’t have to travel far to find
a Samarkand or New Hebrides

The tomes of Alexandria’s shelves
the corals of Adriatic deeps

The moons of Jupiter or Mars
or where extinguished starlight sleeps

It’s here encoiled in these valves
these chambers with their echoings

across vast cloudlands and near breaths
the same for paupers as for kings

And in particular its Lord
by every ant and flea adored
_____________________

9/18/09
(from The Throne Perpendicular to All that is Horizontal)

Wind-Breath

October is when the wind gets inside my skin
turns me inside-out, becomes my breath
as a spray of scarlet leaves becomes my heart.
And my bones know what the black stones
in the old retaining wall at the corner know–
black basalt, come from the hottest fires of earth
as the soul comes hot from God’s forge.

Wind-breath, God-breath, stirring the city
you speak in so many strange tongues
moaning around buildings, whispering in trees
chattering with dead leaves. Flesh can’t contain
such knowledge; it leaks away with each exhale.

So this is the season of skeletons and bare branches
fleshless fingers pointing the way. Yes, I will
follow the fading candles down an avenue
of jack o’lantern skulls. In time. In time,

for now I am held fast by the fragrance
(as delicate as a cobweb across my face)
of tiny pale tea roses, the last of summer.

Asrar

You are missed as the stars are missed that fall
From heaven’s spheres and bereft gatherings
That they had once perfected, pleasing all
Who looked on or audienced their singing
A divine melody. So if the hall
Of this wandering heart no longer sings
The radiance it knew, then know how far
Has flown the company of brighter stars.

Wash Me

A night of rain. Today the leaves are glossy
clean. Like glasses from behind a bar
that sat for years accumulating dirt
and spiders, till one day the barman took
them down and washed them. Like the unused dressy
shoes that hid their dust in closets, far
from public view, until a brand-new shirt
called for a polished pair, to make the look.

An unattended heart can gather grime
and rain won’t sluice away the hidden layers
that build up like the black-lung in a coal
extractor’s chest. It’s lethal stuff. It’s time
I paid some more attention to my prayers.
A finger’s writing “WASH ME” on my soul.

There’s No Place He Isn’t

There’s no place that He isn’t
in interstices tinier than between

the crossbar and the “t” of “tiny”

But ask me if I think He’s
everywhere watching me

in love’s evergreen countenance
of stern forbearance

the way an object casts a shadow
when the light’s behind it

onto any wall
pure or impure

and I might as well drunk be genuflecting freely
before mud Chukwu at the

village entrance in Nigeria with the
other pagans only in worse state

since they in ignorance are

worshipping Allah
on the knob of His door

(though the door itself be holy)

while if I know He’s here but
don’t abide

I should know but don’t know
there’s nowhere to hide