Thursday, March 27, 2008

Paper bugs hide in your shoes.
Lightning shadows flicker damp.
Forget yearning of a thousand years.
Pressure exists on the vein.
Cutthroat to the heart.
Fire little bright.
Show us your skin.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

I am the earth;
The dark damp mud under your shoes.
I am the ground.
I am the cold stone under the living, breathing moss.
I am a quivering branch in the stillness.
I am paper-thin.

Your hot hand on my frosted back
Carries me across a thousand years.
Pulls me from the turmoil of my agitated mind.
Hug me closer to your frame.
Your bones are boundaries that the darkest thoughts
Dare not cross.
Kiss me with compassion, gentle paintbrush strokes
Wetting my forehead.
Bring me home.
Keep me safe.

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

In this, our last hour,

Before the snow melts
And the sun falls,

We will courageously march
Down your street

Waving our homemade signs,
Dancing and drumming out our song.

Screeching and wailing,
Growling our rebel yell.

They will cry for us.
They will throw their bodies

Into the sea
For us.

And you will play tunelessly
With fingers of quills and feather-bone.

You will lead them down into the waiting water,
Plucking your harpsichord and swinging your feet.

And I,
I will carry the children, the small dogs, the disabled.

I will carry them in my arms.
I will plunge their bodies under the surface

Until the screaming stops.
The bats are in birdcages.
Stripped bare and desecrated.
Dark and hallowed.
Her voice is barely an echo.

The painter's brush in long strokes drowns out the music of her softest lullaby.