An individual, indivisible angel
Raises his voice out to God and
We follow with our cacophony
Seeking its ethereal path throughout
A fading existence in weathered flesh.
So a chorus erupts to fill up the small
Universe we occupy. Solitary souls adrift
Among asteroids like a comet’s wish.
We reach out for the voice to lift us.
Yet eleven… eleven voices now gone
As if Judas sought a revision of his story:
Instead of the Singer he’d take the chorus
To leave none to tell the greatest story
We’d never hear.
Could my words ever be worthy
Of the voice that reaches out
And finds God?
You’ve become a presence in my mind,
A force that wraps around the night
Seducing daylight from my darkness
Like a blind man sees as if healed
Now aware of his mind’s inhabitations
That wanted to dance
That wanted to come out and play.
You dance me.
I want to turn that poem into this,
Because sometimes poets do that
Their poet’s brains choosing a path
Better revealed one step at a time.
Come out and play me,
I want to be your piano.
On my back, show me Mozart
Bizet, Beethoven or Gershwin
I hardly know them, but want to.
I lay on my back ready for you
To teach me everything until
We create a song none had imagined.
Keep seducing the daylight
Now warming my days.
A perfect heirloom tomato sits on the table.
We lean in,
Elbows on the table,
Sleeves rolled up
And begin our discussion,
Our important discussion:
What do we do with this perfect fruit?
I chuckle at the very imperfect vegetable staring back at us
A weathered old man
Laughing at the bland store brand orbs,
So perfect they are too easy to pick.
Old man tomato reminds us we got the better deal
In his cantankerous way.
I tell him,
I am going to slice you up in perfect thick slices and sprinkle a little
Salt and pepper on your wounds.
He scoffs at me.
She says, two words for you,
He snorts at her.
I think: I got it, old man;
And sharpen my favorite knife.
Before his protest reaches my ears
I slice him in three
This one for me
This one for her
And this one…
We walk out to the garden
I dig a hole
She scoops up some compost
And we bury the crotchet
And smile for our future harvest
Of imperfect little fruits for our table.
Night’s dark embrace of these candles of petition
Speaks a soul supplicated on knees in moonlight.
A mere cricket in the chorale: “Rejoice!” chirps ‘cross
The fallow field. The shadow cast here seeks to love.
This journey took so long. This journey took too long.
Now day sets its weight down upon prayers’ shoulders
Tired of digging the grave to bury the soul
Of Ophelia. “She still lives! Be still. She loves…”