Spiritual Elements
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Snow Seraphs

You laid down and made snow angels
     from a memory of Your youth;
flinging away purity descended from heaven,
     into Your pattern
as You danced in creation.

Clearing away the melancholy mantle
     of my mound beneath You,
You designed their outline in Your shape,
     each one unique;
fair souls that You set down
     in my winter night.

The imprint of Your likeness
     You left in my life;
feminine wings spread towards
      the sky;
soft elegance pressed into my humanity
.

 

She is Free in the Sky
To Lisa Free

The river no longer reflects the sky,
     but now, a memory.
I dreamt of immersing myself in flowing darkness,
     and letting it twirl, anticipating my touch.

The river is deep.
     I’ve found out her currents are tricky, and strong.
I may lose every dream I dreamt I could carry with me,
     so I pray life’s passage
will join us before her conclusion,
     and quench my thirst
in love’s unending satisfaction.

There is no reflection
     because the world drowns out the heavens,
although she runs in the night,
     slow and steady, towards her completion.

Is there still light in her eyes?
     Do they still contemplate eternity’s expanse,
I’m sure she knows is still there?

One day the world will know that it is dark,
     and she will shine with so many others,
in glory’s paradise.

 

Enduring Springtide
To Lisa Free

I’m sure you remember it—the deserted shore
     we walked along that spring night;
steps in sand, now imprints in my memory.

Side by side we strolled wrapped in comfort—
     life’s burden light on our shoulders,
blanketing us in dreams we still remembered
     from adolescence.

Steps of innocence we took
     soon washed from me,
by the tide that always seems
     to ebb and flow, as our seasons return.

 

The Darkness Held Me as a Child

The darkness held me as a child.  I could
     only see the city
disillusioned on my wall; an illusion
     of carefree superficiality;
the animation of life’s traffic
     like the slapstick of my parent’s cartoon.

Dim obscurity was difficult to understand,
     but the world’s surrogate
brought comfort with electrifying standards;
     figures I tried to identify
by their illustration of enlightenment.

But all I really knew was darkness;
     the life of the night.
Seclusion that isolated the issue
     from the distress of indifference;
like the cold chills of this child’s fever
     consoled with cruelty
by the source that would shine
     with the dullness of familiarity,
I rejected as closeness.

Nightfall eclipsed
     my regard for devotion.
The glare shone through more than
     cold panes;
windows of a darkened soul
     I had confused for security.

 

Plastic Halos

The adorations of civilization
     
are mass-produced and marketed
from a cast of common clay,
     and it has always been that way.

We used to liquefy our precious
     
toil into differing consistencies
and trust in our shiny talismans of gold,
     trading substance
for what was actually broken security.

Now we find our favorite treasures
     made from manufactured polymers,
produced by our extreme reactions
     to unnatural bonds with the immaterial,
poured into the same depression,
     
our impression
of ethereal virtues we value.

Unending circles surrounding
     the vacancy within;
important to us because of their
     dispensability,
for more of the same charming fabrications.

Our worthless glory
     
in which we adorn our heads,
is molded and melts,
     even easier, than in ages past.

 

Practices of the Squash

The scarecrow stands in the pumpkin patch
     as the hollow gourds bow in adoration;
wilting in the stillness of the field.

They fashioned him from a tree
     and adorned him with silver and gold,
fastening him with hammer and nails
     so he would not falter,
as the sunken squash sit on the ground,
     and tremble
with the fear of their faith.

He cannot speak; he must be carried
     because he cannot walk.
He can do no harm nor good,
     and yet the produce quiver
at the thought that he created them;
     tangled vines twisted in community.

The wise crows flourish in the sky
     and alight on his crown,
and giggle.

Imagination’s Child

I was most ungrateful for the sunrise,
     its intruding streaks through dusty glass,
as enchantment’s dream was still before my sight.

I fancied her in bed last evening,
     beneath the city’s neon rainbows,
and was glad, because I was unaware
     of midnight’s darkness.

Hardly awake,
     I long for slumber’s surreal vision,
and leave my blinds tightly folded,
     wishing to gather wool’s twilight romance,
and cuddle with my daydream, as though evening.

 

Built From a Memory

Family was an old residence
     that my dad and his brothers
          tore down to build theirs.
Now only a memory covered
     by an overgrown city;
the fruit of progress.

Where was it? Three generations
     drive the sprawl,
while the rest of humanity
     looks for direction.

It was built, like so many were
     back then, out of boards
of irregular lengths that he
     and his brothers had to sort
and organize in order
     to construct their home.
Not like the rest of the city,
     planned out and fabricated from silicon.

It was right about in the middle
     of that intersection;
the present crosses our history
     at the stoplight
where the cats roam the suburb
     miles across from the pruneyard,
it too now scraping the sky.

 

Wishers’ Objects

I’ve had no lover
     so I’ve courted my dreams,
asking the man in the moon
     for a night with his daughters.

His illumination glares between us,
     dimming eve’s twilight,
as one by one they appear
     in the distance, just out of reach.

An insanely jealous smile fixed on his face,
     he stares at me night after night
hoping I would abandon this idea
     for the more tangible realities of the day.

So in my sleep,
     I imagine the night when he would not rise,
and gradually they would fall
     in stunning radiance towards my world,
as if I could touch, their brilliance.

 

Eventide’s Awakening

Nightfall breathes over the face of the deep,
     and he stirs, rising and falling,
yearning to make love with the moon.

She woos him with her waning smile
     and he longs to traverse the expanse,
as she offers him tranquility,
     then mocks him merrily in insanity.

Surging upon his bounds,
     he advances then recedes,
pondering the pull of himself
     by her gravity;
his efforts distorting her stare
     in his memory.
Her light soon sinking in his reflection.

 

Sati Under the Stars

God has cast stones at the moon
     and she has started to bleed,
          along with the earth.
Her wounds reopened,
     her crimson glow dark and deep.

Since her birth at creation
     she’s smiled lovingly at the world,
thus her blues empathetically
     draw her partner’s tide,
ebbing and swelling.  United
     they breathe sighs of sorrow
for what is to come.

So she slowly creeps
     into her lover’s shadow,
seeking solace for her pain,
     her face concealed in his silhouette.
Weeping for his affliction
     together they long to die,
with the stars.

 

Lampyrid Colliding in A Jar

Memory’s random movement back and forth
     contained in fears to be transparent,
days have covered times with mundane dust.

Lightning flickers faint,
     confounded and contending with obscure abandonment;
obviously reflecting on the glassy surface of this containment.

Captured in my head;
     lid barely twisted so as not to be left ajar,
lightning flashes with its tired wings
     flying at fate.
This trial leaves the impression of the proof,
     as I’m choosing to believe the unbelievable truth.

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