On gold

July 21, 2015 at 5:33 am (Poetry) (, , )

Someone

got into the special paints this morning.

(The ones kept on top of the fridge, behind the cereal and last week’s mail)

Stood on tippy-toes and

stretched her hand

up up up

til

she was impossibly tall.

As guilty fingers touched eternity – teetered, overbalanced –

light splattered

across the kitchen floor.

Everyone knows who did it;

The Creator’s fingertips are still stained

gold.

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on new hobbies

July 21, 2015 at 5:22 am (Poetry) (, , )

It seems while I was away

God took up a new hobby

leaving love letters I read while driving to work.

(Perhaps if I look under the bed, I’ll find a shoebox filled with them

and be shocked that He’s been doing it for years.

What a conversation that would be!)

I guess He was secretly spying on me

that time I sat on a bench in MOMA

captivated by iridescence.

So the Creator asked Monet to teach Him how to paint a sunrise.

I think He’s feeling quite pleased with His technique.

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on words before time

March 13, 2014 at 5:26 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , )

I.

I (*pause, inhale deeply, sigh it out*) am in love.

These words?

Ignited me.

Burned in me before I’d ever heard them uttered..

These words?

Isolated me.

Marooned me till I, woman, became an island, impossible and glorious.

Their cadence?

Tore through my soul and re-introduced me to myself.

Spoke my humanity.

Sung my desire.

Whispered my heartache.

Shouted my fury.

Caressed my soul.

These words breathed me into being.

From words I was formed and to words I return.

I love their all in all.

Power conveyed to nothing-me

to grasp the intangible,

to describe the invisible,

to fold into myself the inevitable,

and lay at your feet the indescribable.

Oh, but how I hate.

I hate that these immutable words preempt my every thought.

I hate that these interminable words spoke me before I ever uttered them.

I hate that these words were before me and before all time.

I hate how they have been spun and caressed,

wooed and seduced,

breathed out and breathed in a billion times before my first.

Every word.

Every line.

Every intimation of intimacy

Sucked out of them til I.

I am left breathless,

Speechless.

Wordless.

Powerless.

Each expansive, enigmatic, enticing utterance leaves me

envious, embittered, and empty

Words, promised me, cheated on me,  failed me

Words, leave me panting, anticlimatic

As all the passion seeps from my soul, my marrow, my lips

Until I am silent and still.

Mellifluous and cacophonous.

Ellipses to the eternal noise

of words, words, words

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on cherry blossoms

February 20, 2014 at 2:02 pm (Poetry) (, , , , )

Why do cherry blossoms in this neighborhood surprise me?

As if grace is insufficient

As if hope is impotent

As if love is insipient

As if mercy cannot triumph over judgment

As if dancers cannot dance upon injustice

As if redemption is a lie; restoration a myth

As if the dividing wall of hostility were never torn down

As if sorrow will last beyond the night

and joy is stifled by the morning

As if we are not truly being changed from glory to Glory

As if only some things are brought together under Him

As if the rocks do not shout out

and the trees no longer clap their hands

As if death never lost its sting

As if the grave was victorious

As if darkness dispels light

As if the oil of gladness slips over and past these rivers of mourning

As if the fullness of Him who fills all things, leaves these streets dry and empty

As if there is no freedom for these oppressions

and the cords of these yokes cannot be loosened

As if these chains cannot be broken

As if there is no reconciliation for these divides

As if there is no provision for these griefs

As if there is no garment to cloak these despairs

As if beauty cannot replace even these ashes

 

As if roots cannot push their way up through this concrete

As if life cannot break forth unexpectedly

And be magnificantly, phenomenally, shockingly unsurprising

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on reawakening wonder

August 2, 2013 at 6:30 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , )

All the words that come afterwards are a feeble attempt to recapture that initial fleeting take-you-by-surprise gasp, that raw emotion that wells up unexpectedly, that catch-in-your-throat gone-to-soon breathtaking moment of first awareness. That slipped-from-grasp, awestruck millisecond of sheer wonder. This cannot be recaptured. This profound magnificent laid-out-at-my-feet, this before me now. This certainty, this age-old beauty. This shifting and reshaping, this steadfast landscape. This eternity is no less awe-inspiring and majestic than in that first sigh of wonderment. But the effortless startling passion of it must now be gently seduced back into my awareness. I must look and look at it. Take intimate note of its curves and nuance. Pay attention to its every shadow-of-turning. In these fleeting after-moments it has lost none of its glory; it is only that I have lost my sense of it. How easily and quickly our senses dull. And all that’s left is for us to patiently resharpen them, nurture this keen sensitivity, coax and caress our sensibilities, reignite our consciousness. Reawaken our spirits. Stand silent before infinity and marvel, MARVEL, at the sheer unadulterated wonder of it.

grand canyon

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