#162

July 16, 2013 § 85 Comments

So are you, like,
super religious,
with all this?”
he flicked
his wrist
at the silver cross
crossing
my collarbone
but implied
with his eyes
more
than the metal resting
in the crevice
of my throat

“I don’t
wear a cape”
I answered, smiling,
providing
an escape
he didn’t take.

You know what I mean.

Do I?
What does “super religious”
looks like?

Because, I
sometimes
am a Cliff Note Christian
thinking
someone else’s summaries
are sufficient
to get the gist

Because, I
sometimes
am a brimstone Christian
thinking
its “good enough”
to be
“good enough”
to escape the flames

Because I
sometimes
am a sawdust Christian
quick to pick
at the bits
in the eyes of others
and blind to mine

But if you’re asking
if I punctuate in colons,
echoing sentiments
name – colon – number
or if I beat out rhythms
in thumb prints on the cover
of my Bible
or if I spout off “tsks”
from the lists
of all the things
my “super religion”
doesn’t permit –
no.

This is not a “Can’t
because I’m Christian
kind of super
religion.
This chain is not indicative of
captivity.

I may be a “Don’t”
or a “Won’t” Christian
(there’s a difference
of intention –
just the way I choose each day
to wrap
these silver symbols over skin)
but that’s the “super” thing
about religion –
from beneath the stacks
of unopened devotions
and amid the sawdust mist
and Cliffs un-noted
I arise each morning knowing
I want more
from the twisting of this orbit
and wake up face to face
with equal parts free will,
and grace.

But if “super religious”
means I need
an extra-strength
prescription faith
or if it means it takes
something superpower strong
to hold together
all I weave
well-intentioned, yet
always flawed
then super religious?  Yes –
Thank God.


									

#154

May 3, 2012 § 33 Comments

“What is Love?”
A poet would not write such a thing.

She will simply tell you that this morning
when he kissed her
gravity
got stronger

that it pulled the blood through her veins
like those swirling
soda pop bottle
tornadoes

She will tell you
that his fingers
are tied
to stars

like balloon strings
because when she holds them
the sky
draws closer

She will tell you
of the perfect
shape
of his pockets
and the notch
just below
his right shoulder

She will tell you
she does not know
how long
she has known him,
can no longer distinguish
dark from light
and the calendar counts days
in black and white

She will not pretend
to comprehend
what “love is”
She will simply tell you
she no longer remembers
what it felt like
to need
to breathe

#152

April 27, 2012 § 13 Comments

Clouds
painting
pavement
like a
watercolor
Pollock

Soil
stained
streaky
by the
strokes of
sliding
raindrops

#142

December 20, 2011 § 14 Comments

Poetry is not
the ability
to fill a line with as many
flowery descriptive creative imaginative metaphorical enchanting captivating
adjectives
as you can

Poetry is not
the ability
to draw
a comparison
or regurgitate
idioms.
A poorly written
comparison
is like
the straw
that broke
the camel’s
back.

Balladry is not
the aptitude
to immigrate
your venerated
morphemes
into a Thesaurus

Poetry
is
not
the
ability
to
break
a
normal
sentence
into
a
million
pieces

#141

December 16, 2011 § 15 Comments

Clouds slid
like God’s wool socks
across fresh-waxed sky
your hand my mitten
snow angels
side by side

#139

December 8, 2011 § 11 Comments

Like
raindrops
racing

to a
hard
concrete

end,
you have
only

so much
time
between

heaven
and death
to see

the
world in
between

#134

November 28, 2011 § 13 Comments

Let’s go sidewalking
fingers embraced the way
shoes are laced
toes, tipping
over curb edges when crowds
edge us to the side
pushing wool of my peat coat
into your pockets
and the crest of my elbow
into your side

Let’s go sidewalking
through street fairs and festivals
hands tied together
by a communal cup of candied
almonds, and
crunching –
the only conversation

Let’s go sidewalking
through lines of gentlemen
craftsmen
crafting sales with cigars
hanging from their lips
“little lady” winks falling
from their lids and tips
of their hats hanging
in our wake as we waft
along, barely watching
where we’re heading

Let’s go sidewalking
where canvases line
imaginary walls and locals
imagine
they are artists so we can
pretend we are collectors
looking down each others
noses, shooting glances
sideways
over the path of our hands
as we hover
further
down the sidewalk

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