Mag 46

When I was a child
I would run my fingers
Over embossed pictures of you
Sitting joyfully
In your mother's lap
And wonder
If I could sit in yours.
I would slide my creamy hand
Around your olive neck
And hold tight,
Burying my shame in your shoulder
And we would weep together
Over the loss of my innocence
And the unfairness of life.

I am older now
But not quite grown.
And I still long
For the intimacy of your embrace
Because even the joy of life is too much
To bear alone.
And I wonder
If you would gather me up, still
And let me, like beloved John,
Press my ear against your beating heart
And trace the softness of your beard
With a childlike hand.
Would I be able to drink in your scent
And let peace consume me
With every breath
As you gather my tears
Again

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Insanity

many times have I walked your shore

tentative steps

on unstable sand

the breeze whispering

a Siren's song

for my questioning soul

every thought woven into the rhythmic

beat

beat

beat

of the compassionate undertow

blurring the line between focus

and release

the seductive descent

into lukewarm slumber

and I think

maybe today

but hot verve breathes electric

across my shoulders

as dancing eyes on flushed cheeks

look for me

and words yet unwritten

from creamy pages

summon me

home

your waves lap my toes

drawing the unfaithful foundation

from beneath me

and in one measured recoil

I know

not today

not today

Magpie #16

what is the sound of your trial by fire

is it the soft unlatching of sandals

for the sake of holy ground

only to walk the coals

lusty flames

gorging themselves

on the last of your faith

is it the escaped groan

of watching your dream slip

the long, slow fall

shattering

like broken glass under bare feet

is it the mother's staccato lament

planting the son of promise

supinated and shoeless

into the eager earth

perhaps it is the trickle of a briny bath

while hope walks away

like a fickle lover

or the silent abuse of unforgiving heat

claiming your tongue and

turning your sweet songs to vapor

maybe your cries come

a mere echo back from deaf caverns

but of this I am sure

there will be the shout of return

glorious return

like the white wizard

full of light and power

or Lazarus unforgotten

and the deep sigh

of feeling the dewy, yielding grass

between your toes again

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Magpie #15

cast not your net for me

for I will not be gathered

under your steeple

or to your polling place

or your bed

and I will not cast

my bread

or my vote

or my garments

to be strung along

to be weighed

and counted

and forgotten

I may offer myself

a satisfying meal for a poor child

but I will never feed

your greed

or ambition

or ego

I belong to the sea

and to the caress of each wave

but I do not belong to you

I swim

in the warmth of

clear emerald

while you drown

in the cold blackness

of insatiable lust

cast not your net for me

for I will not be gathered

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