Monday, May 25, 2009

Civil War.

I could fight these battles.
I could fight and fight,
with my fist against the wall
and my knuckles raw and broken;
I could cry myself to sleep
until I wake to find my answers,
pushing and pushing
until this civil war is over:
I could fight this with no other
walking close against my shoulder;
rain would pour and I would trudge
along the muddy way of war--
my heart could take each step with aching
and aim toward something,
or just sit and wait for the enemy to find me.
I could run away, my lungs on fire,
my side pierced with air that pains me
and sustains me.
I could hobble away toward the back of the line
and let another win it for me,
with my head buried in the sand and all the water
taking over;
I might recover.

I could fight, give in, and fight again
and brave some sort of Alone
as my demons parade and tuck themselves
beneath my skin, and I could loathe them
with a passion and analyze my mode of action
to defeat them: I could beat them
with my will and want to thrive but
I would live still beating daily,
my heart racing, my mind braking
and restarting in the patterns I resist--
that I accept-- that I resist--
that I accept-- that I. . . .

I could take them,
or my vacillating choices:
I'd deal,
my pillows over my head,
and sleep, and hide
and even make attempts at Right
and kick myself for every Wrong--
yes, I could fight some sort of fights
here on my own--
but I would lose them.

Or I could walk with Someone,
fight with Someone: take the blows
and spar and start to gain some ground,
leaning on an Arm that walks this
wounded flesh so far from former battle
grounds that I will fight my wars
out in the open, more than hoping for
the courage not to wall up
or to bunker down.
"A lover, not a fighter,"
and yet fighting life-long wars,
the guns aimed; ready; fire!
as my bleary eyes blink open
every morning.
I could rush the walls, precariously,
and foolishly abandon any thought
to throw myself into the clash
that I've not chosen;
or, I could take the sword in hand,
my hands that tremble with its weight
and feel incapable of wielding it
and shield myself, afraid of the outcome;
afraid I'm not strong enough;
afraid I'm still sitting on the sidelines,
only dreaming that it's over,
and let another take it up with me,
no longer claiming my Civil War.

My war?
When did I take this persona,
claming sole responsibility?
I've been bracing myself against myself
for so long that I despise myself--
yet I can't run myself through,
and no one will do it for me:
Pressing on is my prerogative,
my ally; my burden. . .
to finish Best and finish well
is the better part of my dreams.

I could fight these battles,
or I could lean them on Another,
my crippled limbs shaking,
and draw my Strength from some release
of breath, and burden, and habitual instability;
letting go of fast reactions,
my claim to this, my want of this struggle
for fear of losing my identity in something New:
somehow finding comfort in knowing who I am
in the dark I took yet knew as Enemy.
If I'm not the Dark, or the Struggle With It--
all the things I've ever been--
then who am I?
The shadows curl up under me
and curiously dissipate beneath
my timid feet.
With this Help,
the Darkness runs from me, for
I am Light.
And it is strange.

My old is new and new is aged in ancient Power
that defines my battle grounds
and scores the lines that set me toward an End:
my hope, that one thing that hangs gleaming brighter
than the rest,
for which I cannot fight alone:
to obtain it, or to touch it; to feel my fingers slip around it
and grasp what I've been longing for in sunset
and horizon;
the face within the mirror--
I must surrender in the moment:
the glass shatters; the veil is torn,
my sleep jostled, thoughts turned over;
the agony of being reborn

where angels brush against the soul of man,
charged to lift him above the stones,
to keep his feet from stumbling;
to walk him out and guard him well.
In that broken, bloody place, I'll rise
and draw my Breath to walk out there,
but not alone:
I'll fight and rest, and share the weight
when tears frustrate and silence reigns and I sit
on my couch still tempted,
lying on my bed unmet by Promises my faith believes
when I still feel the dark betray me;
my body wrecked and mind still trying to loop,
replaying lies and fears--
sweet Love comes by with some sweet song
she whispers in my ear.

She contrasts everything I've been
and I feel pierced. . . aggravated. . .
and awakened
by this gift of One Who rouses me to fight
to pull my shirt down over my head,
get out of bed,
and tell the day, "I'M HERE!"
I'll share my battle hand-in-hand,
and when I'm tired, be carried in--
to throw it down, to war again--
And in that wrest and rested state,
fall to my knees,
give in, and

March 28, 2009


Love is a slow, slow, slow,
slow dance,
wrapped around you
and down you and up
and intense,
like a ribbon wound tightly
and a sparrow set free,
left to wing,
soft, and sing,
as he sits on the fence.
And he dreams of some
heart-racing pace
in the skies.
(For just once, he would die.)
Sweet and reckless
and shy.
The risks are so high.
He would try.
(So would I.)

And the ribbons would fly,
ever high, like a kite
hitting clouds without strings,
only held by a ring
on my finger.
(Let's linger.)
It's better held still,
close your eyes,
and the dance will unwind
like a streamer,
the slow, slow, slow
quickly speeding to flight,
spinning, sent on momentum
of feelings confined,
and the time swiftly climbs
toward the cloud-bursting heights,
'til the sparrows find sky
and the ribbons untie
without where, when, or why;
Love will fly.
(So will I.)

May 14, 2009

Friday, May 15, 2009

Her Song

What is your name?
Who are you talking to?
I'm in this frame of mind
pondering you.

You're riddles and rhymes.
Are you slightly amused?
Well, laugh all you want, my love.
I'm still confused.

'Cos you sit the longest while
in corners of my mind
strumming your fingers through
all my thoughts,
playing in time.
(How you do what you do.)

Can you walk by?
We've painted all the signs.
I'd like to brush your arm,
tell you you're mine.

You soon unfold;
I am a secret smile.
Lips sealed, but certainly,
I am enthralled.

You're everything I've got.
Everything I'm not.
How long is forever, my love?
Is it a lot?
I hope it's enough.

I've tried your name,
but only a time or two.
Oh, I'm in this frame of mind
pondering you.

May 14; June 3, 2009

Thursday, May 14, 2009


Glance, and Heaven
tip-toes in, disarming
and warming and tenderly
Stop. Your world stands still
and mine revolves around our. . .
I'm not allowed to say the word.
(But soon I will.)
I will.

And standing, spaced,
the cold rain aches
against my skin.
I think of when you
hold me close,
and ache again.
Every precious word
still bites my tongue
in silent waiting
(yet, a smile):
read through my windows
for a while,
the feelings in their movement
without explanation.

The thought of souls so close
and quivering,
it stirs the warmth of sweet sensation--
God has stitched two hearts,
and better,
stitched them into one.
(You're mine.)
The warm, deep-settling in
this chill,
you walk toward me
(in thoughts; dreams; waking).
You're there,
right there;
l*** in the making
sparks in the cold and
makes me shiver.

May 4, 2009