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.

Sing the Bones

Sing the Bones



I am losing all my bones,
Loosing self and stance,

Heaping like kindling,
Losing all my bones.

Put me to the fire,
Sing me bone by bone:

Croon incus, phalanx,
Pelvis, rib and stapes.

Hum humerus, hum lacrimal
Chant deepest femur note.

Others

Others

How is it that we live
outside of others?

How can we show so much
yet be unknown?

My children do not know
the me they see here,

the one who needs to soothe
herself  with green,

just as I do not recognize my mother, 
who was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen,

swishing her skirts down St. Paul's streets,
licking on a ten-cent cone of cream.

UNSEEN

The Poetry Bus rolls again, and this week it's an enchanted trip with Chris Alba of Enchanted Oak at the wheel. Chris gives us the challenge of writing something about our lives. I don't even know where this stuff comes from, but this is what came to me:

UNSEEN


The surface of the pond is calm;
     the deep green pool
          reflects the trees that overhang it.

Beneath the surface
     where sunlight barely reaches,
          staying still among the reeds,

sifting breath through slits
      that flap in time with the small
          slick and pulsing heart,

a shiny thing among the weeds
     watchful, waiting
          unknown and unseen

by those who view
     their own reflections
          when they peer into the water.

Judgment

And then there’s this:
a tall tree trembling in the storm
like I will stand at judgment
uncertain that my roots will hold
before the breath of God.

ragdoll

I want to be

the doll I recall,

not the mouldering rag

I’ve become,

afraid of the sun,

rooted to the shelf,

dusty head waving

like a funhouse image,

stitched on smile

twisted back upon itself.

I want to jump

from my careful stance,

prop up my wobbly legs

and dance – or run.

I want to look rot

in the eye and spit.

I want to quit

turning myself inside out

to expose the ragged seams,

to find the means

by which the sawdust pours.

I want more.