A Word A Beat and A Place to Call Home

in the wee hours do
you hear the messages
written to you 
on the skin of your soul?

is it time to jump from
your cultural survival plane
without a parachute certain
you will land on your feet like
that dream you had so many years ago?

is there a boy scout pretending to be 
alive like your friend's soul message
telling you to follow the rules and be
good, instead of dancing with the stars
or is the boy scout really dead and you 
have moved on to love over duty?

is love really the power you have been thinking 
comes from having money? does this divine essence
make a home for living in and an abundance
that pays the bills and brings bliss
can you really quit searching and start living?

tonight the message written on the tablet
of my heart says only one word: it stands alone beating
out the tune of the One who formed the Universe saying YES, YES, YES 

Open the Doors

open the doors i say to myself
unscript the splendor of life
live it whole no boxed edges
sight is not what you see
but what you've been given

open the your sleepy eyes
i tell myself let the dawn
rise inside, the sun shines
from your lighted being
God is in heaven but
heaven is in your own bones

unblock your plugged ears,Jude
words are the source of creation
you are not waiting for life
you are making it, say the word
make it flesh and Christ is alive in you

walk into the sunset unafraid of the dark
i sing an even song to myself on the road again
uncover the only path...they all lead to Nirvana
Love all powerful holds you and the million
Universes together praise the source adore
all being sometimes hard sometimes easy always in harmony
sing to the light and to the night and to the All One your home.

Post Parting

almost two weeks now
Dad has gone to parts
unknown though i feel
him wherever i go

the most haunting when
Alexa at Toni's house
started singing without
being cued and a blues
song about sin and crossing
Jordan came on, my Dad's
last name Jordan and he was
a Baptist preacher, oh, he
is around all right watching
over my mother, checking on
me in new ways, i feel
less of a loss i think than
those of my kin who believe
in a far away heaven where they
will join him some day what we
know is little, but people keep
telling me they felt him close
when they saw one of his favorite
birds, a cardinal come and sing
to them, when i heard affirmations
from him when i was writing his
funeral poems, is it true i have
an extra advocate unseen helping
well if it's not true than i'm 
not hurting myself much to feel him near

Nothing is Right

night falls quickly
pain psychic all encompassing a
scrape on the skin of
my soul, stinging and
bleeding i hold his
hand and he vice
grips mine as if he
were not leaving yet
as if this thing we
lived in would go on and on

Wearing Thin

April wears thin

where she once

started startling

us warm she has

returned cold today

and still my father sleeps

in and out of presence

sometimes here sometimes

in the next world

i think sometimes people travel

in that no man’s land and come back

mostly that first foot cannot be retrieved

the second just follows on taking

the sojourner full circle back the Alpha and Omega

here tolerance both increases and wears thin

we barely tolerate ourselves exiled her far

from the lovers we have come to call home

buried back here in the bosom of old memories

emotions revisit from childhood mothers are us

and our children but still live in the 91 year old

woman who birthed these five offspring, we gather

seeking the peace that will let my father go free

we wish for the sweet relief that will return us to

a life that seems far from here, and yet how to

wish for the final loss of a clan father, our tribal

faith knows eternity we sit under some immense

wings seeking shelter and comfort while wind

blows outside bringing Spring on the harshness

of loss babies who will never know the voice of

the great great grandfather we need to make funeral

arrangement he says thinking of us with his last

strength. It is hard to say good-bye.

My father sometimes more
Lucid than any time in his
Long life at night I sit with
Him counting sheep afraid
I’ll be the one here alone to
Hear his last breath it’s not
Death itself I fear but this
Uncharted passage from
One plane to another he
Tells me stories of his life
As pastor and missionary
The wild adventures in the
Back country of Brazil holding
Church in a saloon he says and
In a building where a guy stored the
Coffee he smuggled out of Brazil
And before that of a pastor he confronted
Who was having an affair, he speaks
Of conversions painting his life to
The tune of the pumping hospital bed
His voice distorted by the drooping left
Side of his face and still I understand the
Jumble and speak with him now maybe for
The last time, I change his bed raising lowering
In fear I will do the wrong thing will hurt this
Man I love forgetting the real source of his
Long life this medical end does not fit us
But we are here awake in the night counting
A lifetime of blessings along with the sheep