Gift from God

Gift from God 

God, 

My Dear God. 

My Loving Lord. 

My Giving Governor. 

My God, 

You have given me the right to experience the pain of love. 

Now you give me the pain of experiencing what’s right. 

Now the right suffers in her white dress. 

And the black gown of pain was worn by her once.

Not just once, not taken off and on, 

But torn and stitched back together— 

With the threads of living.

Made with dead dark animal fur, black and reflective under the light of the winter sun. 

Each hair convoluted and dense in its layers. 

The sheen of fur appears glossed and smooth on the surface. 

Wrapped tightly so that she may escape the cold. 

Oh but the sun never gave its heat in the winter. 

And the white linen of rightness, expensive and earned, 

is too light to be worn against the harshness of its counterpart. 

Oh but how the fabric folds. 

How it drapes and flows with the pleasant weather. 

With the revealing nature of the sun. 

And the hot sand reasoned under her feet— crusted over with its millions in number. 

Yet she dances with delicate drapery— her white fabric

Flapping and waving. 

As if to say:

“I’m here! I’m here, I’m right here.”  

White flowers

White flowers 

In the truest of moments, 

the colors of the world drain away and leave the flowers pure and white— 

they leave the truth behind. 

And when this happens, your heart swells, your eyes sting as they open wide, 

As they watch the truth. 

As clear and stark it is to your eyes, 

It sounds in your ears. 

Music streams even, symmetrical, smooth. 

A song as clear as the morning— white and fresh light seeping through windows. 

—

And you experience as one voice becomes a hundred, then a thousand, then the ground under you thunders— 

A million voices sing a song of hearty fullness. Of meaning. 

 

Woman Wearing Stripes

 Woman Wearing Stripes 

Out of the corner of my eye, descends

A Woman wearing stripes. 

Stranger must’ve seen a ghost, 

She’s startled by a mystery. 

Flowing down the ramp in hazed silence, 

her navy and white streaks. 

Holding a brown bag with her left arm,

at a right angle. 

She’s carrying with her right. 

Stranger stumbling, 

stranger caring—

Stranger catching me almost 

Looking.

Lugging her stripes down and around 

Letting the memory pass like any other. 

Leering sternly- acting crazy. 

Talk about insanity. 

Why is this stranger in stripes following me? 

Must’ve seen a ghost. 

Was it a woman? She seems to have not 

chosen between her right and left, 

she seems to never know 

whether to wear black or white. 

The Woman always parts ways wearing stripes. 

Was she really wearing stripes? 

I can’t remember. 

Tape Tree

Tape Tree

Turn the tape over another time, 

Record my voice until the singing whines.  

when I’m battered and old and nearly free—

Please promise to lay me down by that 

Big oak tree.

The singing haggled life like the bounding branches. 

Hold my hand like the sunlight did—

High up there on that big oak tree

for it swung and twisted

Yellow hugged the warm brown tones 

And the sticky green had grown jealous. 

Jealous of the strong branches 

That twisted with the sun,

Because the branches haggled with life and damn near won.