Saturday, July 17, 2010

Crux

Here—
where clouds overhead
and crowds at your feet
thicken into an untimely
darkness—
you can’t tell
miracle from murder,
blessing from curse,
God from your enemy.

Here—
where vultures overhead
and priests at your feet
circle, waiting for a
body—
you can’t tell
mystery from mockery,
life from death,
wine from blood.

Here,
beams, bones,
paths, purposes,
swords and fingers
cross;
“X” marks the spot
where you hang,
and
all you know is

you are
here.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Grief

Stepping out for a walk,
I see the fog is back.

You never know when it will come,
when the clouds will settle heavily,
blocking out the sun
from the sky to the ground.

It rolls in softly.

Almost before you notice,
it permeates everything,
and the chill is beneath your skin.

When will it lift?
No one can say.
As it comes, it goes.

It always evaporates
after awhile.
The last particles of mist
sparkle as they dance
and sublimate in the sun.

Until then,
I’ll just have to walk
in it,
keeping the company
of the silhouettes
that appear, memory-like,
in the vapor.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Farmland in Winter

Fallen timbers
criss-cross like bones
protruding from shallow graves.

They were once barns,
sheds,
outlying buildings.

Among other things,
they kept
what the reaper brought.

Now,
for all of us who pass them
as we travel this rural highway,
they hold the future,

haunted
by snow that drifts ghost-like
through the empty fields
where they lie.