For all the Vulnerable Lovers of the World

 

 

Deep down where seeds

Grow the water of my sorrow

Is building a place where

All may come to the table

No numbing the warning grief

Allowed we must survive this

Raging flood of evil thought

Only One Mind made of the toughest

Open crucifiable love can conquer

Such lying power I cover my ears

And open my aching heart

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A Look In the Great Mirror

I listen to Marie Howe speak of writing poetry

Try to imagine what I could say about this life

How I read the Bible as a child loving the wild

Stories of the old book, Deborah riding her horse

To battle, Easter seducing a king, a lone woman

Putting a nail through the temples of an enemy

And I there listening as  a pre-liberation girl child

Now open my grown

Girl butter places softened by the endless

Love talk you make with me so foreign to the preachers

Who used the New Testament to drone on about

How to live and go to hades,  missing the stories of lost sheep

And weeping whores who pulled water from

The deepest wells because they were there

And thirsty. it is for some small minutes of mercy

Those glimpses of your reflection in my mirror

That I live a story too beautiful for words

 

http://www.npr.org/2011/10/20/141502211/poet-marie-howe-on-what-the-living-do-after-loss

Speculation On Perception

what if those aliens
who designed giant
animal shaped runways in Peru
were not from other
planets, but just us
before we forgot we
were made of spirit?

 

 

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2128111/Google-Earth-reveals-ancient-animal-shaped-mounds-Peru.html#axzz2KSTtCKF6

Goddess of the Woods

 

For my grandmother Fredacy Pray

 

She kissed the woods with her

Celtic goddess ways a lady slipper

Hiding in the deep opened itself to

Her hungry knowing eyes past the

Dust of the dirt road past the dirt

Of her life screwed up with divorces

Harshness beyond belief her prayer

Was Erin’s isle before St. Patrick

Came and placed the whole country

In religious exile she carried the blood

Of women born with Bridget bones

Here after the potato famine

Here nothing but insane poverty of the

American depression landscape starvation

Induced immigration did not save

Her from harshness that

So many years of war had built into

The skin of her Irish DNA I loved

My grandmother, though she could

Not help but die of a brain tumor before I was two.