I am not a grid.

I am not a grid.

I am an old dirt road, overgrown,

And the bicycle hurtling down it.

I am the sun-kissed grass that I am lying in

And the earth, round and whole,

Holding me up.

I am a stream, rushing and singing,

Reaching always for the deep blue sea.

I am the stars: twinkling fire storms in the night.

I am a marshmallow, a cup of tea,

An insect and a big bumbling bear.

I am not a grid.

I am a human being.

A wild hair.

the love of God

light falls slowly,
carefully
in this room
inching toward the corners,
the closets
and under the bed,
unhurried and lovely.
waterfalls are welcomed
the dirt rising on the waves
don't worry,
it is okay.
we can open the door sometimes
the window more often
the trees let their leaved branches
sway closer.
the birds sing.

Mary Karr

For a Dying Tomcat Who's Relinquished
His Former Hissing and Predatory Nature

I remember the long orange carp you once scooped
from the neighbor’s pond, bounding beyond
her swung broom, across summer lawns

to lay the fish on my stoop. Thanks
for that. I’m not one to whom offerings
often get made. You let me feel

how Christ might when I kneel,
weeping in the dark
over the usual maladies: love and its lack.

Only in tears do I speak
directly to him and with such
conviction. And only once you grew frail

did you finally slacken into me,
dozing against my ribs like a child.
You gave up the predatory flinch

that snapped the necks of so many
birds and slow-moving rodents.
Now your once powerful jaw

is malformed by black malignancies.
It hurts to eat. So you surrender in the way
I pray for: Lord, before my own death,

let me learn from this animal’s deep release
into my arms. Let me cease to fear
the embrace that seeks to still me.


from: http://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/

The Format. On Your Porch.

Go Outside - The Cults

i like this song.

Poetry Myth

Where is my bottle of wine? My café,

My parchment, bloody ink and pen -

Certainly I need them to write

this scratch of words

Painstakingly caught and forcibly held down

From the wild dark birds of emotion.

Wait for the Lord - Taize

Wait for the Lord, his day is near
Wait for the Lord, be strong take heart.

pablo neruda

{found this poem today, loved it, wanted to share...}

los nacimientos (births)

we will never have any memory of dying.
we were so patient
about our being,
noting down
numbers, days,
years and months,
hair, and the mouths we kiss,
and that moment of dying
we let pass without a note -
we leave it to others as memory,
or we leave it simply to water,
to water, to air, to time.
nor do we even keep
the memory of being born,
although to come into being was tumultuous and new;
and now you don’t remember a single detail
and haven’t kept even a trace
of your first light.
it’s well known that we are born.
it’s well known that in the room
or in the wood
or in the shelter in the fishermen’s quarter
or in the rustling canefields
there is a quite unusual silence,
a grave and wooden moment as
a woman prepares to give birth.
it’s well known that we were all born.
but if that abrupt translation
from not being to existing, to having hands,
to seeing, to having eyes,
to eating and weeping and overflowing
and loving and loving and suffering and suffering,
of that transition, that quivering
of an electric presence, raising up
one body more, like a living cup,
and of that woman left empty,
the mother who is left there in her blood
and her lacerated fullness,
and its end and its beginning, and disorder
tumbling the pulse, the floor, the covers
till everything comes together and adds
one knot more to the thread of life,
nothing, nothing remains in your memory
of the savage sea which summoned up a wave
and plucked a shrouded apple from the tree.
the only thing you remember is your life.

-pablo neruda

Christ

Christ cries. Christ carries his children
in his arms.
Christ was broken, crushed,
bled and died.
Christ carries his children
in his arms.