Here I am with wondrous wings

No longer a grub in the grass

I can swirl and twirl and spin

In a space that seems so vast

When I was enmeshed in loam

I dreamt I had a different form

Not bound to a mundane home

But rising to dance in the light.

When mired in soil was all I knew

I thought my heart would burst

Longing with an unbearable thirst

To be much more than I was.

My vision fulfilled, I am reborn

As I coarse into the night

My wings extended into the air

In a dance of joy and delight.

symphonic sunset fills the sky, trills roll over emerald hills, and
grace notes take the shape of horses ornamenting pastures. this
place knows how to pluck a string, play a song that is
sweeter than any southern mamaw’s tea. the
spring foals scamper, awakened to wonder
by a drum whose beat they’ve always known, one that’s
pulsed in their blood since before birth, keeping
time to the rhythms of hoof and heart. now the
mares’ swished tails percuss blue dusk, and stars
grow bright to sing the night, voices semitones apart.

This is a golden shovel, written using a line from [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] by e.e. cummings.

nock me, dear archer 

I am intrigued by what goes on
when so many eyes are closed
still there the woken ones  trailing along the sidewalks  swishing by on wheels
where are they all going  and why am I able here now
to see them when
before there was nothing
as if sleep were breath

In the churches of Rome
(and others across the world)
where there are four empty spaces
artists lease them out
to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John—
the four whose narratives survived
the test of time:  

John with his eagle,
Mark with his lion,
Luke with his ox,
Matthew—just a man.  

My gaze wanders upward
here in the chapel of Saint Isidore,
distracted from my prayers
to wonder at the four sails high above,
these mariner-authors heroic in Baroque trappings:
What are they thinking?  

Luke’s account doesn’t lumber like the ox
over his shoulder but skips with the Spirit
and stops to notice the widow and Beggar Lazarus
on the doorsteps of his story,
those really poor,
not in spirit (sorry Matt) but in fact.  

Mark roars at times,
and pauses to elaborate unlike the others
on hemorrhage, the din of mourners,
a man lowered through Peter’s mother-in-law’s ceiling
(Who’ll  sweep up tis mess?).
the Master spitting to make clay to cure blindness,
demons in swine tumbling into the lake,
groanings and even anger
(muted by translators),
and the Pharisees with their
cups and jugs and kettles and beds oh my,
not a lion but perhaps a journalist.  

John soars of course.
No doubt he’d like the eagle,
but some wish he’d land the plane
and tip his hand (anonylmous)
as to all he saw firsthand,
not saving until the final chapters
where he rests his head at the table,
revealing his intimacy with the Beloved.  

And Matthew— just a man,
scribbling alone in hundreds of wedges
and ovals and sculptures—
churning out what became the standard,
heading the tale of four,
up there with quill and parchment,
toiling for the ages.

Fresh blood almost always
scrubs out of tiles

with enough bleach,
but carpets are hardly ever salvageable.    

Bat Eater and other Names for Cora Zeng, by Kylie Lee Baker

I love that there are no fewer

Enmeshed, you say
Are we?
Is it so bad to be?
Delicate veils softening vision,
Enhancing fond eyes and gentle blushes.
Unfaltering gears of each others’ clocks.
Protective gauze lifting each other up,
Holding firm and steady through fragility.
Depth of care and thought and spirit woven neatly throughout our cloth –Even, interlaced, aligned.

But I see the shadow side sneak in too.
Sometimes we’re enmeshed more
Like barbed wire, harsh, tearing tears
Caught in each others’ throats.
A safety net with too many gaps,
A trust fall with eyes wide shut,
Our weave not as even as dreamed.
Or your flyswat reaches, eager to kill the
Incessant buzz of inconvenient feelings
And quickly bypasd the carnage.

Invisible

Darkness
Clothing
Blankets
Gaming
Addiction
They all share the same burden
Helping me hide from my true self
Darkness entraps me in its tendril and blocks out prying eyes
Clothing knocks off the shallow people
Blankets warm me in my cold abyss
Gaming mesmerizes me into forget what I was wallowing over
Addiction grants me escape if only but for a moment
The thoughts to lock myself away
So I don’t have to face what I am out there…
Are too enticing
So I’ll sink into my greatest sin of sloth
With the
Blanket
Clothes
Darkness
And Gaming