Baptized

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i’ve been baptized

in the pure love

of dog’s tongue.

wetness sticks to skin,

slobbering pants

stinking of the corn

or rotting deer carcass

you buried behind

blackberry briars and johnson grass

now, resurrected.

In just–

time splits open

and the holy beyond fuses

together in fur and paws and tongue

and licks away

my fears.

wash here

Poet Prayers

wash here. i crowd last night’s dinner

plates, cups, spoons coated in grease and leftover chicken

down deep in the soapsuds like a baptismal font.

between the scrub, rinse, dry–

silence eats into the back corners,

recites all of the caked mess life spattered

all over my heart, or worse, i did to myself.

i need to be clean too. with feeble words

heart murmurs, stir up the old woman lies

dunk them in the purifying water–

come out forgiven, new.

 

This month, we will begin a series of poems on grace. I’m looking forward to spending time contemplating this idea in poetry.

Prayer Looks Like

sometimes,

prayer looks like

a black hole,

a wide maw open

inhaling all of our

fuck this and what the hells

into nothingness.

our words drown

in the bottomless weight

of darkness.

 

sometimes,

prayer looks like

an open field

grass bending over

listening to  windtalkers,

our words filling in

the empty spaces

between gusts and stills.

but….

where is god?

he is the still voice

urging us to speak.

 

Purging the Old Away

Purging the Old Away 

I.

watch the smoke billow higher,

toward cloud and moon.

the wood cracks and hisses

out its last words

then–silent. more to come.

II.

sweep the confetti floors

till carpet is blue again.

new year purges the tattered memory

even when it tries to hang on

by a dusty cobweb thread.

III.

 look around and ask–what’s left?

nothing but newness;

waiting to become

old.

we shall be heard

come you soprano wailers,

come you alto crooners,

you off-key hand raisers–

come, we shall be heard in the High Country.

 

watch the stones

rumbling on the mountainside

early morning bass notes

tremble out.

listen as the trees

knee slap their limbs

beatslap us an accompanient.

there, join arms with these sisters

raise, raise, raise

your voices-soprano, alto, off-key

doesn’t matter…fill this place

with harmony.

 

come you soprano wailers,

come you alto crooners,

you off-key hand raisers–

come, we shall be heard in the High Country.

we wait here

i know these mornings.

wind blows around, through

catching the lip of my cuff,

eating away the night’s sleep.

we wait here

to listen for the sunrise

behind the clouds–

frozen and warm,

exhausted and alive–

yes, i know these mornings.

31 Days of Poetry{Day 7} Your Hands

Dear God, 

Your Hands moved

Dust and mud

Caked together

To form us.

Oceans, trees, mountains–

A word sufficed.

But humanity needed

Your hands.

 

How have you seen God’s hands in your life?

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to my next church

sit down three rows

from the back, on the left,’

maybe, i look lost

unfamiliar with your church dialect–

but i know.

i remember all the words

to the doxology, lord’s prayer

amazing grace–they eat a hole

in my cynical heart.

i watch you circle around

like buzzards looking

at this new carcass

sitting in your blueredgreen pews.

this heart beats

to slow rhythm of hope–

here is where:

i can lick my church wounds clean,

i can be healed again,

i can be.

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My Heart Leaks Out

My heart leaks out

Through my eyes,

Down my cheeks,

Puddling in the crevices

Of laugh lines, wrinkles

Till it drops into nothingness.

But–

No one sees.

I stand

In a storm.

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Things I should Tell You

There are some many things

I should tell you

Because silence

Invades like a militant

Armed, licking life-blood

From its razor-teeth.

Sometimes,

In the blunder-busy life,

We rush by these few words,

These things I should tell you

All melt into one thing–

I chose you, this life.

Maybe, you see through tunnel-vision eyes

Pain and anger, but look deeper

Underneath…there

Love pushes out

Because I chose you: this life, my happiness.

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