Present

For a friend, and for all the friends for whom I couldn't find the words to use.  For all the girls I've ever known, who I've ever seen break down:

It's so hard to put a hug, a touch, a glance

into poetry, something someone else could see.

It's just as hard to write a dance.

But here's saying that I wish I could.

If only for you.

Wildfires burn the bark away.

And softer trunks will see the day.

And when I see a smile, I'll say

how beautiful you are.

And when I see you, I will say

how beautiful you are.

If only to know you hear the words:

how beautiful you are.

Hearken to the Morrow

Would you let me sing a song?
the sky so big, so broad, so long,
that words even in practiced mouths
are not enough to call it out.
Such vast expanse of purest snow
and rain and wind and stars that glow
these masterworks of golden suns
but light, at daylight's ending runs

in shadows flowing, longer still,
they seem to run like silhouettes
from the figures which they represent
as if to escape their cold regrets.
Your head's dark shadow carries on,
Your feet stay planted, frozen still.
But as the dark makes way for dawn,
The shadow remembers, and forgets.

Your shadow runs and runs from pain.
the whole world all appears the same.
But sleep is rest and now escape
from all the shadow's empty shame.

Now as you wake to singing morn,
The light is coming, light is come.
And though you may not feel reborn,
One day older is yet that young.
And as you step from shadow's bed,
you find your shadow crawling home,
though humbled, broken, parts lay dead,
a greater truth, it is now shown.

Disunity cannot endure,
Unhappy now, but not unsure.
Truth is ground most ready
for the growth of happy cure.

I cry with you, as others do,
I cry for trust misunderstood.
I cry for the pain of sorrow's truth
Of things unwanted, though you should.

Empty sorrow, forced before its time,
made all worse that there has been no crime.
The night is dark, but where is sun,
shadows, yes, and joy will come.

Holy Tears is not a Virtue

Holy tears is not a virtue.
There is no sense to feeling saved.
Desolation is unpursued;
There's nothing so flashy as thoughts depraved.

Amphibious, we dance around
the truths we feel are on the ground,
where, as tadpoles, we cannot walk,
and all we do is dream, not talk.

I pray "Dona mihi Caritatis"
and falling on my knees,
I ignore my plenty follies
answering my own pleas.

I pray to Gods that I create
who give me gifts which I dictate.
The uncreated one looks on;
whose burning love defines the dawn.

Making sentiments of my own love,
my eyes fall down, no thoughts above.

Holy tears is not a virtue,
Humility is, and faith is too.
I teach myself that I believe
proving I cannot know truth.

The little lamb feels she is lost.
She runs back and forth, no cares for cost.
She would sacrifice her all
just to return, hear shepherd call.

But it turns out she was on the path
until she left to find one she could see.
But her eyes are still pointed down;
as if shepherd lived upon the ground.

Whether on the path, or not,
there is nothing we can say
for as we are, we cannot know
which sign might point the way.

What prayer is more likely to be heard,
than this: "thy will be done." What words
are united with his will
than those which sit on windowsills?
Those which float in on the breeze
come from 'cross the crystal seas?

I am myself.
That much I know.
But as for knowing thee
My knowledge is only that which you bestow.
Grant me not to adore you as I see,
but as thou know thyself to be.
Grant me not to search for answers
but to, in challenge, make acts of faith.
Grant me not, in spiritual battles
in the center of the field to wait.

Holy tears are not a virtue,
I seem to think that love consists of its signs.
Tongues are not the way to know you
but to find you in another's eyes.
To know you in your subtle ways,
your ultimate, undying passion,
which, by the spirit's constant aid
you place in our own human actions.

I ask not, Lord, for complex gifts,
I desire not to see thy love,
but to be single-hearted, caring,
to love thee simply would be enough.
And Lord, upon what petition is your mercy cast
than that which you beg to be asked?

Holy tears is not a virtue.
What virtue can there be but to
one day be a lily ewe.
If not thine Love, what Word is true?