At Whitehead Bay
Of sea-flung wind,
And far-gemmed marshes bending
Low, those cliffs
That jut rough shoulders ‘gainst the sky,
And stand unbent,
Amidst the tug and shove
Of sea; the heave! of blue, and
Ho! of God’s past motion,
Spirit’s hover o’er the ocean
In the hush and dusk
Before our time began.
Of light unbridled
And the seagulls plunging wild
And hard as daylight, riled, flings a storm
To earth. The surf foams up,
A breathless, frenzied rush
Of dark to catch the light,
And deep to touch the soft, white
Skin of shore, the gentle sand
The roughened ocean waves
Ode to a Shelf of Homeopathic Remedies
Grocery store corners and neat row
Lines and price-point signs
For cabbage, cakes, and bursting
Grapes in hurried hands of people
In a speed of modern harvest for
Their nightly feast, the slap-bang
Grab of sustenance before they
Sleep, I pitter past, list half done,
Check one item more,
I bend down, snatch my prize
Stand up and
One jar of red like cardinal’s wings
One sapphire stack of cornflower
Sheaves, and one jar labeled
Caldendula, mint, cranberries;
Holy basil, lemon thyme,
All glassed and jarred in grinning
Lines, three sudden shelves of rainbow
Jars, I’m Eve, flashed back into a
Garden world where leaves were healers,
Roots were keepers of the dim,
Sweet secret forces formed
To spark our blood
Two Hands Fisted
Two hands fisted,
Held before you side by side.
One caging in a wasp,
The other clasping
Touch one too bold,
Provoke a sting,
Clutch the other,
You will crush,
Hope is holding,
Wishing with an ache,
The patient balance
Of two possible, opposing ways.
It’s to endure,
The weave of pain,
The tension of a maybe grief,
Against a fragile, fluttering,
God’s world, to me,
Is sometimes better than His word.
A heretic you say?
Then show me how a row of text,
Can echo grace like broad blue sky,
Will twelve-point type,
Trace mercy’s path as deftly as the stars?
Writer as I am, I must confess,
Words crumble with the burden,
Of my need,
To touch and taste and gasp,
Cold terms of goodness sometimes leave me chilled,
From the thought they should reveal.
Can breathe His mercy,
Sharp, like storm air fresh upon my face.
While all the black that stretches twixt the stars
Hints at the depth,
I keen to taste.
Words are bright… and brittle,
Sculpted ice that shimmers yet is frail,
Beneath the ray of light
The speechless thought,
The nameless height and width and depth.,
Fine lace woven by the rising day and coming night. Pearl in morning, blue at even, dappled by the racing storms. Gold at noon and cream at dusk, diamond at the clearest dawns.
Fragile garment of the cold, swiftly spun of elfin thread. Pure for but an instant, strong for just a starlit night. Then rent by sun and foot and coming day.
Jewels dropped from a treasure chest of sky, glittering on branch and field and long-tipped pine. Glory for an instant, diamonds swiftly stolen by the sun.
Fierce for a snap, mad for an hour and then… gone. Rebel clouds netted by guardian winds; sifted by sunlight to a fine strewn dust that scatters through the blue of clearing day.
So take up your burden you bright young soul,
Cast the weight of your love to this grand tug of war,
Join the ranks of the wise
Who are giving their lives
To the yearning and loving and striving,
It’s their love that is calling the rising,
Up of the day,
So take up this fight, be a lover of life,
And with all that you are,
Seize your day.
Afraid to die?
Am I afraid to live?
Flesh is but my clothing for a day.
This changeful shape of earth will pass away,
Refashioned, to be free.
For in this fastness I am caught,
Forced to walk the circles of my days,
Though heart and spirit cry their anxious thought,
Hungering for their chains to slip away.
Think you my life is bonded to my flesh?
God’s praise; it’s not,
My spirit holds my life,
Spirit sings with love,
Spirit glories nightly in the stars,
Spirit that has moved these earthy hands,
Spirit joy that fills this beating heart.
This flesh is but a broken cup of earth.
Afraid to die?
Are babies feared of birth?
Who scorns to dwell in shout of storm,
Or rage of fire or clamor of the wind,
Be thou a silence to my soul,
A darkling calm upon this wintered land.
Be to me that quiet,
Of fallow earth beneath a solemn star,
Of tree arms lifted bare into the sky,
Be the hush of silent earth,
Calm before the coming of the night.
Crash ever headlong into night;
Swift hours of flooded life,
That gallop through my heart ,
And roar away the quiet of your voice.
So whisper, please,
Still the land within me for yourself,
And in the waiting quiet you have wrought,
Be a stirring breath of wind,
That fills this barren silence with your thought.