The Dance

I dreamed I found a marionette

that had ten thousand strings

I tugged each one for Wisdom’s sake

to see what movement brings

*

The beauty of that precious doll

it’s wonder without end

enslaved my heart and mind and soul

and begged that I attend

*

Just then I heard from deep inside

a cry of pain and fear

and looking at its perfect face

I found a perfect tear

*

A whisper, pleading, came to me

an ache too sharp and keen

for greater beauty known before

for wonders yet unseen

*

Around me lay ten thousand strings

before me, crying “when?”

lay my perfect marionette

begging to dance again

*

Blind with love and desperate hope

I grabbed and pulled and dropped

till sweat and blood ran down the strings

till failing, I stopped

I pried the cords from broken hands

and hurled them to the ground

in raging hate and bitter pain

I cursed the doll I’d found

*

You vile trick, you promise false

you asked what I had not

no man with flesh and bones and blood

could handle every knot

*

exhausted, failed, without hope

I wept for what was lost

I held the tangled marionette

and understood the cost

*

When once again, the whisper came

the promise and the love

but now I saw them as they were

meant for a heart above

*

I laid the strings out best I could

I kissed that perfect face

and bowing deep, I moved away

and left the doll in place

*

I whispered something too just then

a thank you for the chance

to witness as the Master made

the marionette dance

Newtown, Connecticut

We know that the leaves will fall

having drunk their fill from the arching sun,

they will share the infinite colors of their life

then cantilever back to the embracing earth.

But today we look up into the undulating canopy

and see too much of the Connecticut sky.

Awkward and wrong, spaces where the blue intrudes

that our hearts remind should be of green.

The green leaves fell and fell too soon.

Crisp parchment of rust and crimson and char

in gentle breezes lose their hold on now-brittle twigs

It is their time, and as much as we wish their colors

to forever grace our world, we know the leaves must fall.

But oh!  the green leaves… glossy, pliant, new

tethered tightly to branches still rich with sap

reveling in the first taste of the early spring sun…

the earth called not for these to come.

We arrive together by the tree’s rolling roots, mourning

that we will never know the final colors of these twenty,

never hear the wind sing through them, never bless their shade

and we cry “By whose hand have we lost so much?”

The tree whispers back “Not by my hand.

I held tight through the storm, and my sap still runs

from the wound that will always remain.

They have been taken from me too soon, too soon…”

The breeze sighs back “Not by my hand.

I sang with them from their first days, tickling them

as they stretched and reached and grew…

It was not yet my time to escort them home.”

We gather the green leaves from the ground,

and stare at our own hands, the awful revelation

coursing like a runaway fever through our veins

as God confirms:  “Not by My hand, but by yours.

It was by My hand that these twenty were born

from the bud of the tree, to suckle on the sun’s dry warmth

to dance in the breeze, to find their own colors to share in time…

It was not by My hand that the green leaves fell, but by yours.”

We know that — in their time — all leaves will fall,

that the cycles of their lives, and ours, are all too brief…

but if our mourning is not hollow now, and our hearts

not too quick to forget our pain, then answer we must

Why the green leaves fell, and fell too soon.

A Movement for Solo Cello and Voice

Child pretty, child gay

Saw a mirror and ran away

Dance with demons, sing and play

Bobo lived, but not today

Spark of life that came to be

A child is borne with an open heart

Embraced by innocent misery,

Confused the message from the start.

A tiniest hand that reached for the light

Desperate for the warmth of touch

Thought Hell’s fire burning bright

Must be the same, and held too much

The youth saw walls as windows black

Believed her light could be the cure

Each chain or boundary she’d attack

No limits could her spirit endure

She had no trust in gifts or gold

Presuming faith as ignorance

She mocked the peace she could not hold

A jealous child’s insolence

Yet something in that child’s soul

Was brighter than her shadow cast

And passed beyond her flame’s control

To melt the hearts of all she passed

As womanhood approached the girl

That soul, so long without a voice

Whispered a song that made her whirl;

The hint that now she had a choice

Frenzied by the chance of light

Of love’s true warmth, and so much more:

She raced across the driving night

Desperate to peek behind each door

But just one map she had to use

One light she had by which to see

Her course was learn’d through life’s abuse

Her lamp lit by her misery

She danced the only jig she knew

But she danced it with all of her heart

When faced with peace, away she flew

Before that song had chance to start

Lord, now she comes to dance with you

That spark of life come home above

Caress her always in light that’s true

And bathe that soul in eternal love.

Child pretty, child gay

Couldn’t wait and wouldn’t stay

Dance with Angels, sing and play

Bobo lived, but not today

A Day in the Life

As Death played the hero in a game of Pain,

Life folded its cards and moved along…

‘There are other fish in the sea, you know,

There are other notes in the song.’

.

The earth split wide and coughed up blood

vomiting fire that purified

sleeping souls, soft flesh to ashes…

Life just shrugged ‘My hands are tied.’

.

Wild and random the wars raged on

screaming Hells of death and worse

devouring any and every and all…

Life wandered the fields, humming a verse.

.

Deep in a cavern of flesh warm and beating

deep in a sea thick with salt and blood’s stain

One became two became four became many…

Life gasped in completeness, and cried once again.

Victory

Beyond me is a moment…

Frozen, sitting patiently between one second and the next one.

At that moment, a rough metal spike presses against the tight flesh

Probing for the right space between the bones

To pass through to the wood beneath

Finding soft access, the mallet drives the nail through

Secure to the timber, below the line of the rope

As the blood rains onto the arid sands

The wail comes from a place deeper than the coldest well

It purges the sands, shaking the temple’s dark drapes

Surrounding the crucifier, entombing him

It is not the sound of flesh on fire, not the cry of bone and blood

It is the piercing of a loyal Heart denying, despite prophecy,

His children could raise hands to harm Him

In the timeless center of that moment, their eyes meet for the first time

The Victor looking into duty’s victim, seeking contact with

A heart that He can understand, and defend

It is nearly too small a thing to find, too distant to recall through years

A simple moment, almost without meaning or distinction

A father’s caress of a not-yet sleeping child, and his prayer

In the instant of that human bond, in the epiphany of that confirmation

The Victor redefines his pain as passion and defies defeat

The fire of His agony fuel for His conquering spirit

Treasure

How many treasures, sought and claimed

How many battles won

How many mountains scaled and named

How many wrongs undone

How many journeys without end

Triumphantly returned

How many foes to win a friend

How many lessons learned?

The world affords a vast array

Of Hero’s flags (and scars)

It’s sirens hold our hearts in sway

And blind our eyes with stars

But rarely is it writ the cost

To be to Fortune bound…

It’s ignorance of treasures lost

That far outshine those found

What precious stone from grudging earth

What riches mounded high

Can match the beauty, or the worth

Of love in a child’s eye?

No glory gained, no fame decreed

No triumph man has known

Can satisfy a single need

As well as love alone

Oh Lord, this world is full of pain

False promises and lies

Of lessons learned, and learned again

While love, abandoned, dies

But grant one prayer, and change will start

One gift to see us through

That we might (through our strength and heart)

Know treasure false from true.

Voice of My Heart

It is often said that the poet is searching for their own, true voice in their work. As I recover poems that I’ve written in the past, I’m left with a realization: for the most part, the poems that I’ve written are as much in the voice of their intended recipient as they are my own. This explains the variety of forms and types… they represent my interpretation of the voices that I shared them with. Having never written for public consumption, I’ve never felt the need for a monologue, only for an invitation to a shared moment.

Perhaps that’s the next part of the journey, the idea of self-expression… but historically, I have had a hard time finding that motivation. Is there a pressing reason to express yourself if there is no intent to share or inform, simply to say out loud what you know inside? I’m not sure… and I’m blessed in my life with an over-abundance of loved ones that I deeply desire to share myself with, so to move past them and to an unknown public seems superfluous. It’s an on-going question; this blog will be a major part of that exploration.

For now, welcome inside. Please scroll down, read what interests you and see if there is some commonality in my messages to my loved ones, and for your own heart. If you find that here, thank you for being so open to it… if not, then hopefully neither of us is the worse for wear.