I walked beneath the pear tree in bloom
as close as I possibly could. Bees
taking off and returning, their wings
disappearing in flight but
those stinger tails perched and ready to sink
into my skin if they felt the slightest brush. When
a bee stung, it died, I’d been told. I stood still
and listened, knowing how much
it could hurt.
I move along a body of water
wallow in the inky air
musty with a dusty scent
like seared fur
I speak your name
to the electric blue
feel the twitch, the thumb,
the teeth of blistered love
~ Found poem composed/modified from words in Dorianne Laux’s poem “Late Night TV”
Moon shine brings night shade
Fresh-mown grass sweet underfoot
Frog harmony lulls
Soft black fur between fingers
Mint leaf breaking on tongue
Sage advice (as opposed to parsley, rosemary or thyme):
Use your turn signals,
Spay and neuter your pets,
Always keep a diversified portfolio,
Never eat Corn Nuts alone,
Never photograph, film or videotape yourself holding what appears to be the bloodied severed head of a white president,
Don’t call it fast food (it’s neither),
Never take a triple-dog dare (too many dogs),
If your last name is Sherman, change it before moving to Georgia,
You can change the world–if you have a big enough diaper.
Collective singing creates shared perspectives.
Singers synchronize breathing and heart rhythms
to produce endorphins for a sense of calm and connection.
In 1517 the German monk Martin Luther
pinned his 95 Theses to the door of his Catholic church,
denouncing the sale of indulgences.
Though Luther was excommunicated in 1521,
Pope Francis has launched a bilateral Commemoration
praising Martin as a great reformer.
In Lexington, a call is out for musicians
to celebrate the 500-year anniversary
with a concert: From Conflict to Communion.
A chance to look back, to experience the suffering
of the European religious wars through today’s realities,
and take this small step to sing with each other.
it’s looked like rain
all day if you just look
at the gray clouds in sky
and not pay attention
to lack of humidity, no
low pressure system feeling
in your bones. A ghost
quiet day plants breathe,
not needing water for
the moment. Coltrane
softens corners. Edges
of shadows blurred. Sepia
slant of sunshine pushes
rays to catch crystals
in windows, yet not
strong enough to cast
rainbows.
(none of this may not be true)
Even if God is only one
I can’t imagine One could keep track of it all
But in the simplest imaginable universe
with stripped down double helix software
I fear we might just be a game
Or a science lab for children
who break into groups and compete
Does the ant group win for most animal biomass?
Does the human group win for most intelligence?
(narrowly beating the elephant and the dolphin)
But only for this cycle
For the 500 million years we can look at fossils
(Everything older has been subsumed)
Every 30 million years 90% of all species are wiped out
And new species are programmed, and wiped out, and programmed
16 times this has happened that we know of
Perhaps we can gain some insight as to the nature of our God
By examining the few who made it through
What species have lasted through the 16 cycles?
The shark
The crocodile
These are the creatures God loves best
Imagine that!
These are the creatures God loves best
(please respond)
There’s a rose in the streets of Lisbon
still, after all this space and time—still
after personal narrative arcs have closed
the circle—and I’m okay. That’s okay.
At peace, this morning, I spoke
with my friend, about wonder,
about how easy it is to forget.
So many faces, so many eyes
all around me, every day,
full of childhood, full of beauty
but lifeless, as if
all that could have been
has been
misplaced.
There was a butterfly in the parking lot
this morning—still—unmoving. I stopped
and stared at the space where it had chosen
to stop breathing. I wondered at the weight
convincing enough to end its story
or a hurricane on the other side of
this world.
There’s a rose in the streets of Lisbon.
Still. I can’t see it. Not as it is,
but I will not forget, as it was,
when you left, when all of you left
your purpose behind
and it’s not okay.
–josephallennichols–
at the old movie house
with my kids on a summer afternoon
the smell of popcorn, our fingers
sticky as the floor, all the chocolate
gone before echoes of the Wurlitzer’s
final chords die and the lights dim
the celluloid orchestra swells
a foreshadowing medley and then the opera spills
overdressed hothouse flowers into Covent Garden
where native violets defy mud and rain and a gentleman
is actually revealed by his words
rather than the cadences of his tongue
(Yesterday’s poem got posted inadvertently while I was trying to format it in the posting window. Here’s what it was supposed to look like.)
He says
that
me and Donald Trump
have something in common
I don’t measure up
And maybe if I got this in my head
It’d make a difference in how I disagree
“The power of the tongue has life and death”
My tongue has torn down cities
Building up my ego
I haven’t convinced you
I’ve got one less nail than you
in my savior’s body?
Jesus outed those
who imposed
religious restrictions
Their lives only meaningful
by comparison
Brother, thank you for reminding me,
the only thing worse than being a tax collector
is being proud you’re not a tax collector
Like
the only thing worse than being a bad president
is being proud you’re not a bad president
This isn’t really about Trump
It’s the way I speak
to you, to my wife, to my family
It’s forgetting that
My Father, he’s given me
The power to petition
So I can speak life over all
And choose
a wrecking ball in the tongue
or a sword in the spirit
