You are
Dark shadow and storm
Rising in frightening form
Full of cold and fury
Bold, making gods angry
Creator and destroyer
Author of horror
Easily inspire
Loathsome desire
Stars burning
World turning
Altered state of being
Sight and seeing
Wicked beauty
For all to envy
Life and death
Divine breath.
My beginning
My ending
Undoing
Heart beating
Heart rending
First love
Only love.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Lent Is When I Say Yes
Lent is when I say yes
Yes, I will have dinner with you
In Jerusalem
Yes I will eat bread with you and drink
Wine with you and I will promise
To never forget you
To never forget our pact with God
To make the world new
To never forget what will pass
Between us this night.
Lent is when I say yes
Yes I will go with you to the garden
Yes I will stay awake with you
And pray
And I’ll hold your hand
And I’ll cry with you
And I’ll scream with you
And I’ll rage with you
Because you’re right
It’s not fair.
Lent is when I say yes
Yes I will kill anyone who tries to take you
Even though that is not your way
I can’t help it I love you
Yes I’ll obey when you tell me to stand down
Yes I’ll follow you and be your witness
Before earth and sky
As they beat you and mock everything that
We mean to each other
Yes I’ll try not to order legions of angels
To kill them all when they spit in your face
But I can’t promise.
Lent is when I say yes
Yes, I’ll scream your name even
If no one else will
Yes, I’ll cry when I see you in a crown of thorns
But I won’t look away
Yes, I’ll beg God to take my life
When they nail you to the cross
But I’ll stay with you
Yes, I’ll try to smile when you look
Down at me and say forgive them.
Lent is when I say yes
Yes, my heart will break
Yes, I’ll be scared without you
Yes, I know I could be next
But I’ll go to the tomb anyway.
Easter is when I say yes
Yes I believe
Yes maybe it was worth it
Yes I’ll tell them the good news
Yes, I still love you
Yes, I know you will never leave me
Yes, I’ll have breakfast with
You in Galilee.
Yes, I will have dinner with you
In Jerusalem
Yes I will eat bread with you and drink
Wine with you and I will promise
To never forget you
To never forget our pact with God
To make the world new
To never forget what will pass
Between us this night.
Lent is when I say yes
Yes I will go with you to the garden
Yes I will stay awake with you
And pray
And I’ll hold your hand
And I’ll cry with you
And I’ll scream with you
And I’ll rage with you
Because you’re right
It’s not fair.
Lent is when I say yes
Yes I will kill anyone who tries to take you
Even though that is not your way
I can’t help it I love you
Yes I’ll obey when you tell me to stand down
Yes I’ll follow you and be your witness
Before earth and sky
As they beat you and mock everything that
We mean to each other
Yes I’ll try not to order legions of angels
To kill them all when they spit in your face
But I can’t promise.
Lent is when I say yes
Yes, I’ll scream your name even
If no one else will
Yes, I’ll cry when I see you in a crown of thorns
But I won’t look away
Yes, I’ll beg God to take my life
When they nail you to the cross
But I’ll stay with you
Yes, I’ll try to smile when you look
Down at me and say forgive them.
Lent is when I say yes
Yes, my heart will break
Yes, I’ll be scared without you
Yes, I know I could be next
But I’ll go to the tomb anyway.
Easter is when I say yes
Yes I believe
Yes maybe it was worth it
Yes I’ll tell them the good news
Yes, I still love you
Yes, I know you will never leave me
Yes, I’ll have breakfast with
You in Galilee.
Monday, January 25, 2010
I Have Learned
I have learned to take my time with a poem.
I know now not to rush my emotions
Forcing the feelings out too suddenly
Storming through my pen and
Raining hastily onto the page
Without taking time to feel the pain
Taking time to be pissed off and
Frustrated
Taking time to feel joy and be
Thankful.
I know how to allow a thought to be private
Just long enough so that I can represent it well
In a word.
I have learned not to fear white space on a page.
Sometimes there are no words necessary
Or no words available
Or no description adequate
And it’s okay
To wait
To take my time
To hush my soul
And let the feelings drip slowly
Like blood
From the end of my pen.
I have learned to take my time with a poem.
I know not to rush the quiet expressions of my heart
And to just sit still with a feeling
Until it wants to become a word
After word after word after word.
I have learned to take my time
And there is always time for a poem.
I know now not to rush my emotions
Forcing the feelings out too suddenly
Storming through my pen and
Raining hastily onto the page
Without taking time to feel the pain
Taking time to be pissed off and
Frustrated
Taking time to feel joy and be
Thankful.
I know how to allow a thought to be private
Just long enough so that I can represent it well
In a word.
I have learned not to fear white space on a page.
Sometimes there are no words necessary
Or no words available
Or no description adequate
And it’s okay
To wait
To take my time
To hush my soul
And let the feelings drip slowly
Like blood
From the end of my pen.
I have learned to take my time with a poem.
I know not to rush the quiet expressions of my heart
And to just sit still with a feeling
Until it wants to become a word
After word after word after word.
I have learned to take my time
And there is always time for a poem.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Gone Postal
“No, no, no, you stupid bitch. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be a mass murderer.”
“Then what happened?”
“You know what happened.”
“No, I don’t, that’s why I’ve come here. I want to know. Really.”
“You just want to see me in here. I don’t care. I’m glad.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me why.”
“Look, it’s as simple as can be. Before today, no one at that place knew my name. They didn’t even care. I was just the asshole that made copies and typed and answered phones. They didn’t know me at all. Hell, they didn’t even see me.”
“And that’s why you did it? Because they didn’t pay enough attention to you?”
“Fuck you! Pay enough attention? To them, I didn’t even exist! I was invisible. Just like I’ve been my whole life. Invisible. Nobody ever sees me. But they see me now. You see me now, don’t you? And before today, you didn’t even know my name.”
“How can you say that? I love you…”
“Oh please. Don’t even start. You never paid any attention to me. There was always something else, another kid, another job, another fucking reason why I wasn’t important. But hey, it’s cool. Things have turned around now.”
“What do you mean? Your life is ruined!”
“What the fuck do you know about it? Have you seen the news? People know my name and they know what I did!”
“What did you do?”
“Listen, don't think you can trick me. You want me to admit it. Okay, fine. I’m glad I did it. People will know my name today. All over the world they will know my name. I’m the one who got sick of that fucking job and I knew what I would do if I got the chance. As soon as they asked me to make the coffee, I was ready. Coffee and cyanide. Ha! Two whole pots of it.”
“Oh my God! Do you know how many people you killed?”
“Twenty-two so far. Right?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Really? Wow, this is turning out better than I thought.”
“Are you crazy? They are going to execute you for this!”
“So what? There are worse things than dying.”
“Like what? What is worse?”
“Being alone. Being invisible. So I’m fine with everything. People will be telling stories about me for years and years after I’m gone. And maybe, just maybe, some big shot working in some downtown office won’t think he’s too good to fucking say good morning. I made it better for the next one.”
“I have to go."
"Will you come back tomorrow?"
"Sure, if you want me to."
"Will you do something for me?"
"If I can. What is it?"
"Bring me a newspaper. The headline is gonna be kickass. Can you bring it with you when you come back? Please?"
“Then what happened?”
“You know what happened.”
“No, I don’t, that’s why I’ve come here. I want to know. Really.”
“You just want to see me in here. I don’t care. I’m glad.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me why.”
“Look, it’s as simple as can be. Before today, no one at that place knew my name. They didn’t even care. I was just the asshole that made copies and typed and answered phones. They didn’t know me at all. Hell, they didn’t even see me.”
“And that’s why you did it? Because they didn’t pay enough attention to you?”
“Fuck you! Pay enough attention? To them, I didn’t even exist! I was invisible. Just like I’ve been my whole life. Invisible. Nobody ever sees me. But they see me now. You see me now, don’t you? And before today, you didn’t even know my name.”
“How can you say that? I love you…”
“Oh please. Don’t even start. You never paid any attention to me. There was always something else, another kid, another job, another fucking reason why I wasn’t important. But hey, it’s cool. Things have turned around now.”
“What do you mean? Your life is ruined!”
“What the fuck do you know about it? Have you seen the news? People know my name and they know what I did!”
“What did you do?”
“Listen, don't think you can trick me. You want me to admit it. Okay, fine. I’m glad I did it. People will know my name today. All over the world they will know my name. I’m the one who got sick of that fucking job and I knew what I would do if I got the chance. As soon as they asked me to make the coffee, I was ready. Coffee and cyanide. Ha! Two whole pots of it.”
“Oh my God! Do you know how many people you killed?”
“Twenty-two so far. Right?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Really? Wow, this is turning out better than I thought.”
“Are you crazy? They are going to execute you for this!”
“So what? There are worse things than dying.”
“Like what? What is worse?”
“Being alone. Being invisible. So I’m fine with everything. People will be telling stories about me for years and years after I’m gone. And maybe, just maybe, some big shot working in some downtown office won’t think he’s too good to fucking say good morning. I made it better for the next one.”
“I have to go."
"Will you come back tomorrow?"
"Sure, if you want me to."
"Will you do something for me?"
"If I can. What is it?"
"Bring me a newspaper. The headline is gonna be kickass. Can you bring it with you when you come back? Please?"
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Bus Stop
I swear I can’t resist that smile
That becomes a smirk at the slightest
Challenge, whistling air escaping pursed lips
Right before you say
Man you must be crazy
You will never know the fantasies
You fuel with your walk
Hips that move to the rhythm of love
Making me forget you’re just waiting
For the bus licking your lips cause
You know I’m watching
But don’t mind me baby
That’s just the sound of me
Digging your vibe
I’m just a woman happy to share
This bus stop and this moment with you
Don’t mind me, that’s just the smell of me
Digging your flow
Maybe tomorrow I can share
A moment at this bus stop with you.
That becomes a smirk at the slightest
Challenge, whistling air escaping pursed lips
Right before you say
Man you must be crazy
You will never know the fantasies
You fuel with your walk
Hips that move to the rhythm of love
Making me forget you’re just waiting
For the bus licking your lips cause
You know I’m watching
But don’t mind me baby
That’s just the sound of me
Digging your vibe
I’m just a woman happy to share
This bus stop and this moment with you
Don’t mind me, that’s just the smell of me
Digging your flow
Maybe tomorrow I can share
A moment at this bus stop with you.
Shalom
He couldn’t have known what I was praying for
When the doctors said that God cursed me
Because of my sin
And took my money anyway
He couldn’t have seen how it pained me
To walk or how I had to hide
My shame
For 12 years
Twelve.
Long.
Years.
He couldn’t have heard what the other women
Said about me
No longer having the good manners to whisper
That I’m a whore
And this is why my husband left
why my child died
why I’ve had this shame for 12 years
Twelve.
Long.
Years.
But he knew that I believed
When I touched him
And knew the
Shalom of God.
When the doctors said that God cursed me
Because of my sin
And took my money anyway
He couldn’t have seen how it pained me
To walk or how I had to hide
My shame
For 12 years
Twelve.
Long.
Years.
He couldn’t have heard what the other women
Said about me
No longer having the good manners to whisper
That I’m a whore
And this is why my husband left
why my child died
why I’ve had this shame for 12 years
Twelve.
Long.
Years.
But he knew that I believed
When I touched him
And knew the
Shalom of God.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Pouting Over Coffee
I don’t know why but his pout always made me laugh. Not in his face, but away from his gaze I crack up just thinking of his protruding bottom lip and bowed head. Like no other he played the impatient child, bouncing from one emotion to the next and I sat still.
“I’m mad because you didn’t call me once, not one time all day. You never think of me. And I think of you every minute.”
I said nothing and reached for the coffee mugs that we bought in London last fall. I never put anything on the top shelf. I stood on my toes trying to touch the handle of the blue one. Failing, I exhaled, exasperated.
“What kept you so wrapped up that you couldn’t call me once?” He stood behind me and grabbed the mugs. Smiling and feeling vindicated because I needed him for something after all, he placed them on the table, the blue one for me, the red one for himself.
“I don’t know why you take it personally. I talk to you every morning and every night.”
“So, I guess that’s enough for you.”
For me, it was more than enough. His love was at once every color of a million rainbows and every shade the mind could conjure. I always assumed he’d burn himself out with such intensity. I expected him to lose interest, like a child might lose interest in a his new train set with the arrival of a new action figure, which doesn’t seem like much fun when the new video game comes, which is great until he remembers that he hasn’t played with his train in a long while. When he didn’t lose interest, I feared I might lose myself in such ever-present and consuming passion. It felt unnatural and dangerous, like base jumping or playing in traffic. Now I know that it is just his way.
“I know what it is,” he said. “You just don’t love me the way I love you.”
I ignored the statement. It was his favorite, engineered to make himself the martyr in our love affair that in his mind was just about to end. So I said, “The coffee’s ready,” and he got the milk. I poured coffee in his cup and then my own. He poured milk in my cup and then his own. I sat down and pushed the sugar toward him and he pushed the cinnamon toward me. We performed this coffee ritual, sacred, intimate and in perfect rhythm, every evening after dinner.
“You’re right, my love.”
“About what?”
“I don’t love you the way you love me.” And there it was his sweet and disarming pout. I smiled. He looked as if I kicked him in the gut and laughed about it. Laughed as he sunk breathless to his knees.
“You love me desperately,” I said. “And I love you certainly.”
We drank our coffee and we were silent for a long time.
“I’m mad because you didn’t call me once, not one time all day. You never think of me. And I think of you every minute.”
I said nothing and reached for the coffee mugs that we bought in London last fall. I never put anything on the top shelf. I stood on my toes trying to touch the handle of the blue one. Failing, I exhaled, exasperated.
“What kept you so wrapped up that you couldn’t call me once?” He stood behind me and grabbed the mugs. Smiling and feeling vindicated because I needed him for something after all, he placed them on the table, the blue one for me, the red one for himself.
“I don’t know why you take it personally. I talk to you every morning and every night.”
“So, I guess that’s enough for you.”
For me, it was more than enough. His love was at once every color of a million rainbows and every shade the mind could conjure. I always assumed he’d burn himself out with such intensity. I expected him to lose interest, like a child might lose interest in a his new train set with the arrival of a new action figure, which doesn’t seem like much fun when the new video game comes, which is great until he remembers that he hasn’t played with his train in a long while. When he didn’t lose interest, I feared I might lose myself in such ever-present and consuming passion. It felt unnatural and dangerous, like base jumping or playing in traffic. Now I know that it is just his way.
“I know what it is,” he said. “You just don’t love me the way I love you.”
I ignored the statement. It was his favorite, engineered to make himself the martyr in our love affair that in his mind was just about to end. So I said, “The coffee’s ready,” and he got the milk. I poured coffee in his cup and then my own. He poured milk in my cup and then his own. I sat down and pushed the sugar toward him and he pushed the cinnamon toward me. We performed this coffee ritual, sacred, intimate and in perfect rhythm, every evening after dinner.
“You’re right, my love.”
“About what?”
“I don’t love you the way you love me.” And there it was his sweet and disarming pout. I smiled. He looked as if I kicked him in the gut and laughed about it. Laughed as he sunk breathless to his knees.
“You love me desperately,” I said. “And I love you certainly.”
We drank our coffee and we were silent for a long time.
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