Standing Inside the Continents’ Drift

This morning, the rains practice their rhythms on the skylights
That had let the day inside all night long, but somehow a dream
Found me.  Now with the rains I practice my craft of singing
Words over emotions and memories as they fall down to earth
Looking for a puddle to gather and be stomped in by a child
Who wants to see what mud splatters will say, dried on the wall.

The dream that found me had been sitting like a solitary soul
Somewhere on the broken landscape inside Thingvellir Rift
When the playful child god inhabited my solemn grey frame
And taught me how to play again with my children. Hiding
In a cave that stank of piss, lurking like a tiny monster to scare
The first youth who dared walk past my home, unsuspecting.

Too late, they had become suspecting of their playful father
Recalled from Tiger Wrestles and indoor basement camping
And out-seeked the hider. Before they became aware of fatigue
Sitting alone inside the stench of my own piss, I walked out.
This was not the dream. From behind the rift wall, a tectonic
Movement occurred inside, pulled apart 2 centimeters a year.

In the gap the ocean had filled, glacial melt so clear yet so cold
You could see the bottom 46 feet down, it looked like a hand
Could reach inside to pick the lucky coins now a part of earth’s
Slow history. Someday, tell the story of how God’s patient rip
Tore open the flesh so called perfect gods hid behind, aware
The fissures in the facade were cracking like broken porcelain.

In seconds, though, God wrapped his hand around my heart
Began to squeeze so hard to make me stop and listen to Him.
Look out across my broken landscapes, Son, and see beauty:
Each crack in the earth, the sharp uneven rocks, every weed
Awaits your naked feet. Be brave. I unbuttoned the costume
Seeing in front of me the first rock that looked stable enough.  

The Four Chambered Heart

Now, where are the words
The heart needs?
Sort through its four chambers
To mix blood for the body to keep moving,
If not forward,
Any motion is better than none.

From chamber to chamber
Soft walls,
Trim dangles,
Ceiling cracked,
Windows frosted with dust.
These images attract hope.

Like the frail old man who hobbles around
Believing he will golf again… someday.
We doubt. He doesn’t.
That matters.
The chambers still pulse,
Hear them hum.

A voice outside says,
“You are not alone,
Inside: something bigger.”
A window tap invites,
“Come out and play,
You are not alone.”

Buckets of blood
From each chamber
Like an Aztec
Bled out
Sacrificing
What little remained of the soft vessel.

Hope,
The old man still clings,
“Let’s go.”

Image: Girl at Window, Salvador Dali

The Melodies of Crickets

I think it was in between Carver and Dostoevsky
When I understood what Dylan Thomas meant by
The light breaks where no sun shines, so I
Found a heart where no beating had been felt.
The blood rushed back like a flood, heart raced
Like a youth chasing fireflies around a field.
My mind, its natural foe, tired from the fight
Sat down on the floor and said “You are right.”
This time, it was the mind who let her inside.
It opened the window to all of her ideas
And dreams and fears like it had a small racing
Heart of its own and finally met its counterpart
To fill it with the throbbing it had always felt.
She became my heart’s secret agent, so I sat
Down on the floor with all of them, undefeated,
But thankful for the rest. This red beast
Had carved respect by showing up every day.
But it fought dirty. All it did was sing.
A melody washed me like Ennio Moriconne
On a Mission to show how strong it had grown.
Its return to battle this time, like Thomas wrote,
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart push
In their tides. Bones take on flesh. Soil proves fertile.
The candle finally becomes the fire it meant to be
All along. The tiny red heart the mind thought its own
Simply was my heart itself, infiltrating to be heard
Like the melodies of crickets wooing in the morning
When I finally woke up and chose to be.

Image: The Book Lover by Frantisek Kupka