Sunday, July 27, 2014

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.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Prayer of the Soil


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.