Scrubbed Clean

scrubbed clean,

the blue sky

scrapes

black space

and wind fills my face,

raises me to heights

beyond fear, beyond

siren-calls

at crossings

unstoppable

as ancient trains glide,

inexorably

grinding

fate;

but higher I’ll fly,

beyond the stench of ruin.

foul grief cannot follow

to where I’ll go, lifted

by the constant,

immaculate

wind.

This Rising

I wanted to be the thundercloud

pounding fury in electric flashes,

but impatiently the earth pulled me down,

and trapped me, like silent, winter tule fog,

pausing over dark, delta waters

until I rose over the darkening valley

and observed the crescent moon

ascending over seaward hills,

effervescent disc

dissolving into death,

while radiant, scimitar edge,

rent the black night.

but now, in the pure air at last,

just beneath the black vacuum of my limit,

I discern the elevated host,

this consecrated, bloody body,

in the agony of redemption,

in the glory of this perfect moment,

this nexus of heaven and earth,

this rising.

Sonata

"Music is pleasing not only because of the sound but because of the silence that is in it: without the alteration of sound and silence there would be no rhythm."

Thomas Merton, No Man is an Island

The grave is empty.

Darkness, half lit by the blurred moon,

Chilled by the sea, the fog waiting,

The enthralled stars, nearly lost,

Searching for another earth,

The dark soil waiting for the seed.

Chaos-night.

The memory of a fireplace,

Warmth with music

Undulating arias

Like small birds falling into darkness.

Cold rain

Driving against my window.

Muffled music and dreams of water,

And another grave.