I’ve started adding my poems to the site. A few at a time. Please come back from time to time and see what has been added.
with my galoshes knee high
i stopped here once before:
so close to hammocks
swinging and hoof prints
of Tennessee Walkers in Georgia
ridden in pastures of red clay
and brushed in barns
not very far from where
a muscadine vine
is bare this year.
What old man wouldn’t doubt an angel
and be struck dumb by the news
that God was more powerful than menopause
and moves through ages as if time didn’t matter?
Like waiting until you are too old to remember
how to behave in front of a naked body
that wasn’t sagging, absent the memory of muscles
that arched and moved in mysterious ways indeed.
What old man wouldn’t be speechless in front
of such a sight as only memory can detail?
And if doubting is a sin, then how forgiving
can angels be of men who can’t even remember?
Forget for a moment that we continue praying
far past our time and our need.
Forget that we forget what we are praying for
and bless us for at least praying for something.
Remember also, that we can’t help the look of doubt,
the look of despair, the look of one being forced
to remember certain unanswered prayers,
and remember also that we can not be approached
so lightly, even by angels.
We need time, and then we come around;
then we want to speak; then we have things to say
but are struck dumb by the sight of your angel.
I am scared of sacred things.
My sanctuaries are dimly lit,
like the moon
rising over a pulpit.
To drink the shadows
from each other’s cup,
we quiet the darkness
with whispers of prayer
like that of the priest
kneeling by the crept,
stealing himself with
the sign of the cross.