We step out
Our bones cracking
Wondering why it is
You want this
Wishing
For the comfort of a closet floor
The audience stares with burning eyes
They are the mirror and the guillotine
The voices, our own voice calling you slut, or fat, or loose
Or queer or stupid… who created this isolation
That could look out there and see other when if your own
Eyes could open they would see as if tripping on LSD
A universe the color of love misting over the void holding even the drops
That are our tears, dissolving us into the madness of a world made of
grace,Rosemerry and lace..
Monthly Archives: April 2014
Mystic Manners
present is not tense,
but so conscious, thoughts
are servants not ego-
driven task masters
i pray in thoughtless
ecstasy, spinning
enlightened beauty
Easter Morning Maine, 1954
wee hours of the morning we hike to
top of the nearby hill, the women
in curlers, men unshaved I’m six and in
pj’s rowdy and happy to be out
in the chill of pre-dawn
walking up the dirt road past
the cemetery where our ancestors sleep waiting
the trumpet playing, “HE AROSE,”
clear and breaking the silence
my father giving for once a very
short speech, each of us in awe
of the breaking of that grip that
death had, a rising from the grave
crawling over our skin waking up the senses
wiping away the tears of sorrow and injustice
poor Mainers sing Up from the Grave,
looking for comfort and a way to make it
laughing on the way back to the church
kitchen where for once the men did
the cooking, an abundance of biscuits
scrambled eggs, bacon and gratitude
simple this faith with eyes open beyond the grave.
Poured Onto the Page
There are times I feel that i am not a poet
and never will be that my lines just run
like ducks in a row out the door of some
closet in my back is not enough that
the sound of the Universe pricks at
my thin skin until i bleed words in rhythm
not nearly enough to qualify or even
that i try not to, but i appear to die
if this damn damn is stopped up
between my fingers or the bow of
my strings i sing loud laments and
shake until words let loose from
the roots of my hair and drop drop drop
on the open book where pages fill their longing with words words words
Education or Vision
What I see conditioned by
What you’ve told me I see
To pure light unboxed with no ribbons
Poet Jude's Poetry 