the pathways
of your body
in search of
a soul…
mine, or yours?…
dare i
pay the toll?
and jump the
trolley?
hurtling madly
to the destruction
of self…
mine, or yours?…
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i am the fingers of love…
with silent determination.unbuttoning your blouse,tracing the line of your neck,stroking your hidden fire.playing the stringsof your heart’s old guitar,picking up the pen,and lighting the match.digging in the dirtto plant your dreams,wiping the tears fromthe lines beneath your eyes.trembling as they tie the bow,and reach out to touch your casket.aching with the torrent of passion,and the…
you smell like….
your gentle touch;your eyes that have loved,and lost many a battle.your fierce heart wrappedaround your children, your dogs.your sadness weepingwith every step you take.your ashes remembering fire,your fire that burned down,sweeping away all that was,and dared to be…your dancing soul crippledby shadows that haunt.your wings of flesh and feather…you smell like… me!
the old man’s hands
his bruised lips the taste.his soul rising with bloom,and laying down with finality.his heart the earth,that opens and devours…his spirit the waiting,that becomes creation…the old man left staring,through a window with no name!
fifty eight years,
pathways of stone,of water, of wind…no footprints behind.small fires on dark nights,waves of stillness opening…the eyes of the breathing surround.touch! touch!echoing against the roar.words sealed on paperfor future fires!when scars become giftsleft on strangers’ doorsteps…for there are no strangers,soul unto soul.step after step,rain falling softly.smoke from the chimney,hangs like a prayer.face to face,lips touching lips,a…
a dirty needle,
and a stolen car…a one way trip to hellon a dead end road…a mother weepsby an unmarked grave…no one came to the church.the guilty and the innocentboth suffer and die…sometimes its hard to saywhich is which…when the sun doesnt come upin the morning sky…. andit’s raining darkness all around…who casts the final judgement?and who grieves?…when…
god doesnt live in ‘holy books’,
in churches, in certain countries,in the color of skin, in the formof government….she lives in the faces of the childrenthat you bombed, in the frail bodiesof the families you left to starve,in the raging silence of the youngman who hangs himself because he’sbeen discriminated against…if we say it’s not our concern,that we are not personally…