ALL HERE

​

There is too much grief here than this body will allow—

competition for hierarchy is based on levels of chaos.

 

Distraction is a flaming accident, an unavoidable Beauty;

viewed by the companion who rides shotgun next to Sorrow.

 

As sweet cherries paired at the stem dangling on Memory

dip into dreams, crickets play a violin’s sinuous cradle.

 

The rocking chair of peace lulls my child to sleep in his cradle.

There is too much devotion here than this body will allow—

too much that will be lifted by “run past my dress” Memory.

 

In all moments, the unbalanced books of life tumble in chaos,

once rested on foundations laid by hands who carry history’s

Sorrow—a monument in ruins dedicated to Beauty.

 

The curse of the holy raising in prayer, is chased by Beauty.

Her prisms refract gnarled fingers looming above cradles,

as warm homes lie in the winter streets of Sorrow.

 

Bleak is the sentence for those birthed by a god not allowed.

They are strapped and carried toward the salvation of chaos—

their lives scored like songs onto the rubble of Memory.

 

Dust clouds gather survivors and deliver them to Memory.

The struggle for grace is as jagged as a scar carved on Beauty—

a small reminder of how glory can seep out of chaos.

 

I sit in a fetal position, knees kissed and chin cradled.

Depression is injected as far as wallowing will allow,

the poison of loneliness stopped in time by Sorrow.

 

The giver of all poems and founder of freedom is Sorrow,

who strings secrets as a rope suspended over Memory.

Fear looks down, but has nowhere to go.

 

Space is demanded to allow long strides toward the

University of Beauty, where infinite life is naive and

will not be confined to cradles—though pleasure

may masquerade as wisdom and march with chaos.

 

The believer is convinced when justice rides on chaos.

Horses run fast past the carnage tended by Sorrow.

Faces are unwritten, and only one word hangs on every cradle.

 

Serenity of pride is appeased in those with selective memory

who declare gardens unsanctified and shun their frivolous beauty.

 

Yet plants and flowers thrive, because all here are all allowed.

​

​

THE GIFT

​

I am blessed with the inheritance

of the intangible,

which tangles like cat’s cradle

between my little boy’s hands.

 

I hold this web as if it might collapse,

though it is only taut string—

once a circle,

double-knotted at the ends.

 

I dip my daring fingertips,

latch onto the string the way

my son once latched onto me.

We sustained each other—

a river feeding the ocean,

the moon pulling tides of

childhood and womanhood,

womanhood and childhood.

 

My fresh human was nearly delivered

through my expanding tunnel of light,

but the blood in my body

was not river enough.

My belly became a volcano—

he erupted from a fissure,

a glowing ball of magma.

 

This cosmic labor is quickly forgotten.

The world rushes in like buffalo

stampeding a ravine.

Run fast enough, hard enough, smart enough—

ride the backs of beasts

or be trampled by their hooves.

 

Sometimes I am trampled—

not by the elements, but by myself.

I am the general of the infinite cells inside my child;

all governance breeds rebellion.

 

Denied ammunition,

I take fire without cover

while madness escapes

No tissue on earth,

can catch the tears I cry.

 

I hope someday,

between the realms of hope and uncertainty,

my compass will point towards the power

that rises and sets on my horizon.

 

This inside-out haven

that only exists for me,

holy and beautiful—intoxicating:

clouds of heady incense,

a choir of angels singing songs of silence,

the stained glass of the universe

casting prisms across my face.

 

Then the metal of battle

lodged under my skin

will alchemize to gold

and fill what is broken.