I have thought of this, my little love
Rifled through the pockets of my diminished
Powers of speech and human governance,
To find you all good things:
Enhanced night vision
Kick-ass ninja skills
The irrefutable assurance of your loveliness
Not enough.
So let us add:
Dragons rise to your command
Eagles lift you to the place where air grows thin
and may you
always see
The clear road home.
Too much, you protest
So down to this,
voice of love
what if it was perfume
or acorns stashed in my pockets?
Bits of things remind me
of you
Lost to me for now
I trace all the
Alternate
timelines of our
Would-be existence together
How did you
sprint past me, Dear?
Leaving perfume, acorns
emptied from the inside out
This pocketful of
Birnam Wood in my hands,
in my hands, this forest floor
Dirt, mulch, fallen leaves, roots, baby trees…
Saplings, timbers, interlacing
Limbs outstretched toward the warm
Light of God who takes away the sins of the world
…the story we will be.
was the day I lost you
more about all that later, my Beautiful
But for now…
Just know I love you
always have.
Close to
La noche de Los muertos
I open the
Faraday box
Keep one leg out, door ajar,
Bit of light
Lent by a friend
You inhabited when
The world was still
An old wine skin
Blood and Spirit
I tell myself this
New litany of
Places for the dead
Who will all
rise
Because of you
They kept it
sealed for centuries
Told ourselves we could
be tourists there
Run our mortals’ hands along the stone
Ledge, trace rock, and DNA
Rise
Rise
Unshrouded Light
I am not much of a pro-sports fan, although I try sometimes for the sake of my partner.
I feel less inclined to try now that the famously laconic Gregg Popovich had words for this recent election and the folk who voted red.
So many things you said worth noting Mr. P, but the one that stuck out the most? Like if I could only pick one thing you said to comment on–You are afraid we are Rome?
Long been Rome, I would say.
We have not only tolerated legalized infanticide for the last 43 years through Roe v. Wade, we now allow the concessions which provide the service of salting, vacuuming, dismembering, and dehumanizing small, voiceless humans through the months of their development in the womb both federal funds and deep privacy in order to abort and also harvest the bodies of these exploited children.
If you were to ask an ordinary person, say a woman or a disabled person–would you rather be verbally belittled or carefully vivisected for spare parts?
Belittled, thanks very much.
The latter-death by legal and medical caveat. Pretty disenfranchising.
To be clear, very clear–we, the citizens of the United States, have long been Rome. Infanticide is infanticide is infanticide, Mr. P.
How many millions of female, minority, Muslim, immigrant, disabled American voters did not vote in this election because we legalized their murder years ago?
No words will bring them back.
He says
The least of these in the language of childhood
Neither emperors nor governors nor bards
Gather the little ones
…least of these
Army of small
Wanderers in the world
They look for a Savior
Older Brother King
Who can
Calm the storm
Speak peace to the wind
And tell all bedtime stories
With hope at the beginning and the end
Of each hard letter
INRI
The least of these-
M.
Roll the stone away
Jesus of Nazareth, King of the…
Minimum.
the tape is a blur of
ordinary splendor
songs sung loud in a messy
house vivid patchwork
some mention of a circus
close to the tear in the hand-made quilt
I touch your brow
tell you
take your medicine before you go out to play
Round, pink, chewable analgesic
as you lift your head to receive the pill
Eucharist in the living room,
old and beautiful
Words for “good” and “grace”
So close to your already liturgical
Beautiful like…
A rose
A ruby
A diamond
A butterfly
A boy in flight
in a fit of unease
she has an out-of-body experience
Rising above the squalor
Imagining what it would be like
To live inside the perfect house
Instead–she dusts the counters and all the edges
with cinnamon to deter the sugar ants
Beats the air with questions
Washes and re-washes clothes, stones, teeth
Delays bodily functions
To search for
-The weighted blanket-
Surrogate mother/synthetic comforter
Lyrics/verses
of a lullaby sung softly by the
preoccupied
with the ghosts of children,
She
hammers nails into the wall
for improbable angels
they float above
small, intricate, perfect
real girls
each flicker just a moment then
Snuffed out
Because they were not…
Because they were not…
born boys.
I still have unanswered questions for the hand-sized catfish I pulled out of the Blanco River today.
It was caught in some debris, entangled in some fishing line.
Hard to get to.
Weirdly specific salvation (if you don’t believe in a God who sees stuck fish).
But if you do…
You wonder who was the fisher with the broken line?
When was he last here?
How long has this darkish catfish been stuck in the line?
Will it live? Line cut, hook still in?
The Gospel is chocked full of fish stories.
But they don’t all get saved, hook or no hook still stuck in the craw.
And then there is me: fished out by Jesus, standing wet in the afternoon sun, inventorying fish stories.
…. Caesar’s likeness on the coin in its belly.
….No sign but Jonah
….The empire of Rome long gone
this one small fish wriggles free
marvels at the hidden depths
in the quotidian
stories of being
fished out.
Carrying Light 