Arson Clears The Way

That crucial internal gaze

of kindness required

setting God on fire

(yes, the impulse arrived

in midst of a January night),

then incinerating medieval constraints

while tramping through dogma’s

barbed-wire bounds, where reason,

meandering walks through cemeteries

and slow saturation in silence

became his trusted bolt cutter

as he began sensing rivers

of love course through the body, every part

more clearly seen, pernicious

doubts galactic dreams, every nugget

held, kissed with tenderness,

as clouds of curling smoke and ash

lifted spirals of gratitude,

labyrinths of wonder,

from what remained

of that charred, deluded,

hallowed ground.

Stunned

trembling

aspen leaves

lips of gold

kissed

by force fields

of blazing

rivering wind,

open birdsong

soundless mouth

riveting us

bouldered inside

quivering blades

of light.

Lying About 6 o'clock Mass/Birth of a Heathen After a Relatively Brief Labor

 At 10 I gave up

on God: those horrible

fights in our pristine 

Colonial home, attacks really,

inflamed by dad

more or less daily,

his unchecked mocking

of my buck teeth,

of my boyish exuberance,

mom's chronic collapse

at these gates of hell

no matter how many rosaries

on our knees the family

circled those beads,

the fat monsignor with his pinky

rings, Lincoln Continental,

how he bullied us altar boys..

Yes, I was 10 when the universe's

curtain dropped after finishing

the paper route Sunday morning,

me, my new knowing, my sad

bike, this strange loss, a stranger

gain.

dawn is

birdsong

bathing

in pine tree

dawn is

pine tree

bathing

in birdsong

Resurrection

Buddha and Jesus in cahoots,

maybe the girl next door

their flashy sidekick,

offer

homesick boy

this orange sweatshirt

for free.

Ice melts, sky

clears, brown hills

green up, stucco

apartments become less

sinister, almost disappear,

birdsong

river flows

again.

What Happened

 A father's sneers

slashing remarks

scour tender tissue

surrounding

son's crushed

ripening heart;

jagged metal rips pink skin

crash of earthquake

a long bloody birth

mother dazed

for decades.

Coming Home

Let's keep plunging 

for pearls,

feasting on oranges 

and pomegranates,

preparing for arrival

into that river

of silver and light....

'Amazing'

Climbing slabs of lava

up a Mexican volcano

dreamt about since he was 5,

another day traipsing off trail, 

stepping through knee-high

chapparal towards the distant

peak on Winter's Solstice

are like us in bed entwined,

naked except for your thick

wool sox, returning at last

inside morning's golden light

to our sexy selves, this adventure

of lovers being

open  

bold

in the moment

alive and free

to what's sweet

and sparkling, deliciously

beguiling, this mountain

of beauty we traverse 

under cerulean skies

through waterfall and forest,

boulder and canyon,

breasts, shoulders, bellies,

hips and hungry lips,

our horizontal trip

of erupting surprise.

Graced

Half forgetting who she really is,

coated with envy's slime, the woman

in that murky midst of life

steps into this burbling stream,

immersed now in holy fluid

underneath quivering birch leaves

and a sky that sings forever

and not yet, 

she's somehow, 

head tipped back laughing madly with the heavens, 

thankful for her lack

of thankfulness.

She

In this hidden meadow,

she melts slowly

onto a thick carpet

of Springtime grasses

at the very center

of her being,

a waterfall

of giggles

tumbles forth.

Remembering To Live/The Art Of Gladness

Let's lakeside rendezvous,

someone else can

milk the cows, pay

rent, fret

about the next

pandemic. We'll

wear orange sweatshirts

with our favorite old boots,

drink coffee with cream

'til noon and skip

stones smooth as butter

across the skin

of the vast

patient lake.

before ascent

His eyes, tender moons

softly shimmering 

after sneering lips 

exploded volcanic rage 

poisoning our home.

Mother alone with him

deformed into a wooden

chair by the contorted

anvil of our father's fears. 

I'm watching his every

move from the end

of an empty hall; 

my brother and two 

small sisters

cower behind my trembling

back while in vain

police are called

to stop him

in his twisted tracks.

Tomorrow, 

I'll wake early 

from nightmarish

sleep, careen up 

blocks of jagged lava

to Paricutin's peak, 

then descend

onto the crater's 

smoldering floor

under new moon's 

steadfast gaze.

Home....

Who's Here?

Might you essentially

be a multitude

of voices, of concealed

treasures waiting

without full knowledge

to ultimately

be known

in the giving

of your pleasing

essence, your simply

naked presence,

like blossoms swirling

swimming easy 

in such fragrance,

this wild breeze

of mercy?