Above the ruins

Above the ruins of the past, we
  build a monument of all we've learned.  Buried beneath
                              our wisdom,
                                    we've left decaying days.
                                                                       Sturdier than
                                                                         that slab gravel hope, our
intentions slant
but point.  We part the
sky in declaration and clouds pardon our insistence-clearing in absolvance.
Strong to weather, unmoved by either
   rain or rub.  Fragments of
                                 each
 have
formed the irrefrangible and the new has only risen from prior pain.  That which we,
ourselves, are made of.  The flooding gut of springtime
     saturated seeds,

painted grey our walls but not for
                              lack of
loveliness.  The mind's eye still
                             sees within, the
reeds, the palm grass prisms growing, waving on.
Faith
fossilized, we've split where weak
     scarred now with scales for strength, so
                            the future palpitates.
                                             

Carry on Tuesday

Magpie Tales

Death becomes divine

Hands frozen in time, only here.
                       There,
                       they move, made new.
                                                    What all you lacked in earthly moments, there you      
                                                                                           hold.
                                                                                                   The glimmering
                                                                                                         gift of wisdom, love, lustrous.


We see only this: hands
                           held high,
asking
answer, pleading, help.
Frozen.
But death becomes divine and you have received.
Transference to abundance.
   A heritage of worth,
         endowed with glory we can not
                                 yet envision,
                                       Enlightened, finally.  Given sight.
Hands, Heaven directed have reached their goal, wooed by illumination,
captivated with splendor.


                We weep not for you.


What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.
-Kierkegaard


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Rise

I can not die, I’m made of stone.
So, cry a river, Eyes.  I will not drown.
Break, Heart, into a million pieces and my breath won’t cease.
I’m stronger than you know.
Ears, listen to the truth,
taste the lies, spit them out…
and rise.


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