[eagle drafts : one]

sleeping eagle couched
in your nest high
upon the cliff you
wait

the dawn of a new day

dreaming uncharted skies
and how the breadth of galaxies

would taste on your wings

sleeping eagle couched
in your nest high
upon the cliff you
awake

 

[something fiercer]

And I am overcome by your Beauty
Your song on the whisper of my dreams
Like a golden thread, an outline of light

Light up my skin with your thunder
Burn in the golds, browns, and ambers
Be the orangecrimson flame upon my heart

And unshackle my knees to a new beat
Where melodies are not chains nor refrains
But flight paths

So pour oil upon my wrists, brow, and lips
Pour your Beauty into me
Weave your Truth into my words

Beloved, I desire to be the Roar

 

[to the prying out of shards, or loving, or baking & breaking]

You don’t give up on Love. Nor on people.
No. You surrender and submit.

I trust Him so have no qualms about
loving you, hoping for the best,
believing the best about these things
that make up our beautiful messy-nessness

But sometimes…

sometimes it’s the me-in-process-of-living/dying that makes for unease and discomfort…or un-comfort and dis-ease.

It’s the bits of me that still remember

brokenhearts
trampledbelly
curvedtongue
fallowedsoul/soil

and it requires hammers and teeth to pull out these particles,
those clay shards that are puncturing bruising my raw soul

there are too many things I’ve let around into me and
i can barely think in linearity, much less
fractals or more interesting dreamscapes and possibilities
that hide themselves in impossibles–

gather together all the heart-stumbling blocks & attacks,
throw them into the fire; gather the remnant wheat and meat
in me and mold me, bake me, break me a jar
of fragrant oil, poured out upon your feet.

[to death’s death]

out of frustrated jagged strands
hastily chopped in a frenzy of vanity
out of this thinned out frame, this
prideful shadow of what could have
been a now, a today, a present fullness–

i find peace in death

for dreamers who see limitlessness
death is merely a passage, a corridor,
dark damp and decayed but for a single
flower of Promise that
death, too, has a death
and a beginning

it begins with a longing, a desire
for butterfly wings in summer,
for quiet explorations that sustain
daylight revelations
for transformation and absolute winds
that tornado across centuries
in a single generation

because

blood has been sown,
the earth cries out to the heavens
and all the martyrs and saints
are clamoring and cheering
for eternity’s tale to fully unfold,
you see–

i find peace in death

the allowance of decay and destruction,
the peeling off of pestilence and plague,
the shedding of old skin, the puncture wound
to the heart and the bleeding that flows,

i find peace in blood spilt, broken alabaster jars,
dry bones, ashes, and prison walls,
chains and whipping posts; these
instruments of death hold no fascination,
no horror, no fear, just an unperturbed
and expectant gaze

like a cloud of witnesses who watch the
seeds of their sacrifice
struggle, persevere and bloom
in this one generation that knows

death already always had a death

[to the possibility of loving]

i’ve been considering [every
time your eyes glisten, which
is rare enough to make my heart
catch; every mood of fierce and
tender that waves across your days;
every color that flames in your voice;
every mischief that floats silent upon
your lip-corners; every nod and every
hesitation; every careless and careful
word spoken] and i’ve never been
this considerate when considering
how a narrative might unfold, but,

nonetheless, i’ve been considering you,
[the way you move my kept heart, every
time even when i think it the last time]
and have decided that

i like [the possibility of loving] you