Raw

Melancholy song
played at top volume,
filling the room
before a storm;
and I die inside,
pain swelling beneath
the tears,
fear. 
Fear of how not to be
sad,
fear of forgetting how to be
glad,
fear of disappearing
even while I'm here,
dissolving into
sand;
pain makes it all a
foreign land.

Wish

I will find my language. 
Perhaps not polished. 
Scratchy voices, too,
can be pleasing. 
It's the feeling
inside,
bold enough 
not to hide. 
I think I would like
to take
that ride.

And So It Happens

Looking all over,
and I just can't find. 
Absent sleep,
restless mind.

Domain

You're free at the moment you say you are,
'cause that's how you were born. 
Freedom sculpts the clay within --
it's not a garment to be worn. 
Freedom is, even when freedom can't
transport you from A to B. 
Freedom is unbreakable,
though they shatter both your knees. 
Freedom is the heart of you,
which no thieving hand can steal. 
Freedom is the will to say,
"To lies I will not kneel."

Holy Angels

They stir the breeze
and rustle the trees
and fly atop the hill. 
They brush past leaves
and rest upon eaves --
ambassadors of good will. 
A thimbleful of thought,
for them --
a planetful, for us. 
Love's choirs triumphant,
good geniuses near --
lasers beaming through muck and muss.

St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.

Word

Spirit stricken
as though
by outward blow,
wound unseen;
guts and nerve
splayed
across atoms,
invisible . . .
words floundering,
weak,
flailing;
compass tossed
to the four winds
upon
impact. 
How to grip
the pen, then? 
Tightly? 
Loosely? 
Gently? 
Fiercely? 
Spirit's echo
cried out,
ran circles 'round
the pen,
moving it only
by distant breath --
to no unifying
effect. 
Took a word --
a single word --
after the miles
of year and months . . .
a solitary word --
to rouse the
concussed soul. 
And I will not speak it
aloud, 
for it is far too precious
a sound
to an author spiritually spilt,
ground into silt
of shattered nerve --
lost vim, lost vigor,
lost verve --
until that word.