Burial Day

Bright chill

coiling clouds

roiling coarse space

welling

heaving seas,

while naked

free

from death’s

empty pledge,

at last

I leap

into the lucid

air

Sunday Morning after the Storm

Clear sky, vaulting blue

drives out the ragged clouds,

of yesterday’s storm.

Yesterday

the wind raged

as we huddled close

behind closed windows.

Lightning

enthralled the night

as thunder intoned

basso profundo,

felt before heard.

From behind drawn drapes

we felt trees thrashing

releasing spent leaves

until barren and clean,

fearless at last they faced

winter’s cold scythe.

But now the bright Sabbath

breaks through,

and the resurgent sun

pierces

spare nature’s

pure architecture.

A Good Day

I called today
and heard the sharp alarms
ring by his bed,

but you said
it was a good day.

He was awake and
though gagged raspy with tubes
again humor filled his sly eyes.
He Laughed at the irony
that he, of all people,
should be rendered
speechless.

So through your speakerphone
I spoke to him,
uttering my limp, encouraging words
into the silent, empty air.

But you said he had heard
and with his eyes smiled,
happy to once more
be part of the conversation.

After we ended the call
I felt your cheer; not quite hope,
But not despair.

Waiting

Waiting

sitting in silence

finding things to do

on this normal , quiet evening.

rustling papers

and tapping keyboard,

with one eye on the phone

waiting for disaster

to ring through my complacency.

I can almost see

the sterile walls, the contained chaos

as hurried doctors and nurses

bring relief to the battle-weary  

binding the hundred wounds

of collision and anger,

cancer and a failing heart. 

I can almost, but not quite, hear

The IV pumps, heart monitors,

crash-carts clattering down

shining halls, carrying the artillery

we aim at the enemy.

But right now,

right here

all is quiet;

the cat mews patiently

for her evening meal

as I watch for the phone

to light up

and give me the news

that will shatter

this quiet evening.

Puritans

Puritans roamed Salem
clutching rough stones
to split tender flesh and stain the
virgin land with the guilty blood
of dire Satan’s slaves.

Cheerfully they prayed
for the blessed day when all true Faith
would flow righteously into
the common trough of their Truth.

And so, devoutly, they hung the witch,
cast out the papist, and
derided the Quaker as
friend to the fiend.

Stiff necks bent, they peered
into bright clouds
for a righteous wind
to suck them up
to their austere heaven.

But these modern puritans
eschew clumsy ropes.

Favoring the forward thrust
of a stolen jet, they plow through
high fields of glittering windows,
shouting suicidal chants,
riding on orange glory,

and expunge the infidel
from the spoiled earth,
smashing Satan down
into a hell of melting steel
and shrieking glass.

Gladly they die smiling, these martyrs,
certain they will soon drink heavenly nectar
in the airy laps of celestial virgins.

November Morning Storm

Overcoming
the ascendant sun,

dark clouds
fill the world.

They nearly scrape
our tallest trees

barely clearing
low delta hills

gray folds flush
the new day clean

New rivers rush
through empty streets

driving deep
into compliant earth.

Thus derided and left for dead,
the sun abides its golden birth.