Prompt, Me

PROMPT, ME

Write about the stars, you said,

The Tour de France, how music looks

If you can see the sound.

I draw short rays, points of dust,

A spiral then a snail

Atop a bug. And clouds.

I've settled now,

Into this sack of bones. Where I want

Is where I go.

I can no more prompt me

Than I can stop the sparks 

In the eye of this winged pig caught in a net 

Of my making.

Prayer of the Soil

VanGogh

Let me not be rocky ground,
parched and cracked, burned by sun
green then yellowed, bitter, brown,
all good intent, but fallow, shallow.

Let me not be choking weeds,
grasping, climbing, blocking sun
roots that run, smother seeds,
thick and high, but sticking, pricking.

Let me, God, be fertile soil,
tilled and plowed, enriched by sun,
abloom with wheat, embody royal
Word made flesh to flourish, nourish.