Portal

white arch in bleaching
sun, harsh light filling
chalky void that echoes
on a vast and vacant
languishing ocean

to touch is to pull
the years of banshee
winds onto fingertips
and look at ancient
accumulation in
present fingertips

the brush off of ages
under the arch of layers
steps through time
that climb the remnant
the remains to remind
that fish once flew
through bowing grass

they were once then
what leaping deer are now
but at the arch the layers
are all the same
where human hands can
retreat in horror in
feeling the flaky scales
in tracing the dagger teeth
of mariner monstrosities
that always knew hunger

pale portal of powder stone
to pass through layers
and leave the given behind

Beyond the temple star

the land surrendered you
in solstice rays
to journey far
beyond the temple star
it gave you up
released you from
its pale limestone arms
for you to walk
on the distant horizon
on the waves of hues
receding into the sky
follow the bear
and its hunter there
into the depths
of a blackened sea
that glimmers before all
beyond the temple star

Through the glass

I turned my back to the room
the scene outside
through the glass
took me in
in the drear and gray
the clouds were in a hurry
too much like their
human counterparts
never really knowing what's
waiting down the path

through the glass
I watched the trees scratch
the sky in the dragging
turn of the earth
their limbs ebbed and flowed
too much like their
seaweed counterparts
never really knowing what's
waiting in the ensuing wave

through the glass
the tortuous wind echoed
in great gasps it thundered
as if tearing open a storm
and ripping a deluge out
from its belly
it whisked frozen dust across
shining pavement
below a breaking cloud-stuffed sky
the trees had scratched
and I wondered when this wind would end

Solstice

the hands stole you away
in the frozen dark
with their cut glass grip
and icy pulse
they pulled you out into the cold
onto the moonlit blanket
where you surrendered
where your heart slowed
to the beat of the falling snow
the longest night took you
into its depths
beyond feeling the winter wind
passing through your body
beyond the stinging frost
beyond the whispers escaping
from your numb lips
your words fell in the silence
and didn't fly to their intended ears

the hands held you down
in the frozen dark
to hold you to your fate
within the hollows of the night
while the angels looked away

In wholly night

a path to a star
the desire to go
far beyond our
own burning sun

what sits atop
an evergreen mount
to beckon or tease
through the trees

a future bright
burning in the dark
that light may grow
and shine evermore

these heralds drift
through the night
with foreign voice
a known lullaby

in coldest of airs
a flickering flame
a vessel of star
from further than far

what will be born
the hope so near
far beyond our
own burning sun

what burns there
in coldest of airs
in unseen sight
in wholly night

Birthday butter

art was disgusting to her
when it wasted materials
that could be used elsewhere
to help the poor or
feed the hungry
or when it lost all
practicality and only
took up space needed
for something more

she realized this while
cutting a stick of butter
and reflected on a film
she saw of Tibetan monks
sculpting butter into
elaborate figures and
designs to celebrate the
birth of Lord Buddha
which made her think
of all the energy spent in
creating the same beauty
to celebrate the birth of
her Lord Jesus Christ

supposedly saviors she
thought to herself while
cutting the butter into
the flour for a pie crust
putting aside her project
she spied her pill box
she remembered she forgot
and popped open the cell
for the day, spilling the pills
into her cupped palm
the tiniest pill contained
both heaven and hell in
its minute chemical cosmos
but no nirvana was found there

Snow prints

these tracks

this script of travel

whose part to play

in returning

or never leaving 

in the first place

what has been gained

gleaned from these prints

left in the fallen snow

that lead off

and away

into the cold

why do they wish

for something that way

when here is okay 

at least indifferent

when all the world

is the same white

who calls to them

beckons in the frozen veil

memoirs of warmth

written on the ground

in their path

the remains

where is their home

when sweeps the wind

and the script is gone

will the story linger

teeter til the end of time

and then...

Wormwood's blink

the quiet chaos in the cosmos
fell to earth
stretched out upon the stones
the cold grey flesh

with motionless words amidst
the forest of brittle bones
the sky so white
it consumed the land

in unspoken form
the listless chaos blinked
when the world was torn
and the moon burned

a torch in the night
fell to earth
bathed in the silver seas
until none were left

feather words flew both
day and through the night
mocking birds were
they in fiery flight

their kiss upon a cheek
melting, pooling
upon the cold numb stones
offering for the grey flesh

the dying angel's pulse
fell to earth
winds sweeping frozen ash
over the pointless stones

incinerated words crumble
a powdery language waits
for tears, or rain, or lustful drool
the x in the equation

while the dazed chaos
sits in the forest of bones
takes a drag and exhales
"Damn, I missed it"

A firry perspective

their gnarled hands hunted

through the snowy night

tearing through the silent air

to sink their blade into

their unknowing prey

still, the victim standing

blind to the nearing threat

as the savage beasts crept

out of view with drawn blade

a sudden swing for metal

to savor the victim's limbs

and sweep after sweep

the ax sung in the silent air

until the final groan 

and fall of the victim there

onto the frozen ground

dragged away into the night

the gnarled hands patted 

the heads of their offspring's

children upon returning 

with the victim from the silent air

eyes gazed at the sight

on that cold December night

the body propped up in the room

in the candle light and calm

as the gnarled hands sang

O Tannenbaum

Wars we've worn

those wars we've worn
the claw marks lovers
wear on their backs
the pain of seemingly
crowded atoms in
space minuscule in
the echoing hollows of space

but what is shared or
fought over more often
is the fleeting wink of
a cat sitting at the window
a collision between
raindrops and pavement
a moment that adulterates
in pools of maimed memories

and the winks and
collisions and moments
are too numerous even
for those fingers that
sit and count infinite
and still we wear our
wars for grains of sand
which can never be held
in any one hand