Lady Diane

The icy wail bit deep into the bones

reassuring, in a way, eternally

that there was no one else as alone

standing glacial; uncertainly

the clump of frigid earth thrown

on consecrated soul made saintly

Final words to me are known,

“I love you! I love you, Mary!” stated plainly

For you the martyr’s flag will be flown

Ever loving, in slumber’s peace ever held gently.

Winter Mile

There are roads to travel that go on for quite a while

but there are none that go on for quite as long as that

of a Winter Mile

When the light has wrung the last drop from dark beguiled,

there are none quite as somber bespoke as that

of a Winter Mile

Warmest sleep of children deep in coverlet dreaming wild

no safer haven of a lover’s wish be true than that

of a Winter Mile

The Winter Baby

These Are My People: Lydia Khandro

Dried brown leaves and gray branches of solemn cycle

ignite to become golden lakes of wild hip-deep depths

The Blue Ridge Mother bears twice the ritual witness

standing cool, wrapped in the garment of her ancestor,

cradling her Divinity with skirts raising winds of power.

Her hair halos with the light of life, love, and nurturing.

She is the Great Mother bearing her Winter-born in holiness

Fifteen minutes of Flame

HONK! The beeping squall announces sacrament.

Ruffle of coat as the door becomes locked against the world

With a practiced swirl the coat is laid down over his bag

Puppy howls and purring clucks sing greeting.

Fluffed heads and ruffled butts, affection gifted.

Maybe fifteen minutes then the worship service is over,

He vanishes like an unanswered prayer.

I am blinded by my faith, accept it as my truth

even as I’m told I’m a sinner:

“You do this.”

“This is your fault.”

“You don’t have courtesy.”

“(s i l e n c e f o r w e e k s)”

FUCK YOU!

As I kneel at my altar after giving all I’m able,

it isn’t enough because I’m not whole-y holy.

I am “The Chosen One.” I am “loved dearly, but,”

This church is beginning to feeling like a silent prison.

I meditate in deep communion to ponder pontificated parole.

Sometimes Maybe

Sometimes I want to be a kite

Ripped and tugged by wind’s whim

Rising above spectators

Admired for my brightly colored dips

That write nonsensical whispers

Of promises made to a forever not witnessed

Sometimes I wish I were a bear

Raw with raking power paws

With heavy duty claws that help me eat

People I don’t like or those who disturb me.

Sometimes I wish I were a siren

One that rests on rocks singing sweetly

Lulling sailors to their doom upon my rocks

Jutting breasts and flirty hair calling to boys

“Beware! Beware!”

Sometimes I’m glad to be me

A chubby tubby funny woman with dimple cheeks

Cracking open frozen hearts, not of ice

But stuck in places not so nice

Places that don’t remember their worth

Burying their beings without much mirth.

Revision

Rolling down the road before

Been there, done that, know the score

Crossed that bridge, then burned it down

Trapped myself in my hometown

Ghosts of me walk laughing by

Anger driven, cocaine high

I barely know the face of then

But I wear them as my diadem

Broken heart lay broken wide

Spilling love from what’s inside

Trains of childhood sing forlorn

Don’t chase those tracks. Don’t heed those horns.

Meat Loaf

Did you know meat suits come with fragile halos and fierce wings?

You know, the ones hung on ideals, beliefs, but rarely on faith?

The halos may as well be bent together like pipe cleaners

fuzzy and limp if not woven together to be fuzzy or less limp

You probaby don’t even realize you have anything divine

in your very being

You lay around on the couch after an average dinner

watching programming so you become programmed

You walk the dog, feed the cat, check the kids, go to bed.

Alarm goes off, take a shower, wash around the halo

which mostly is a pain in the ass, but it remains.

Then, around half past ten, while heading to get coffee,

a young man steps from the curb while deeply involved

in a conversation on his phone that holds his attention fast.

The fierce wings spring from your average back, halo blinding.

Without thought or personal consideration, you grab the man.

The bus barely misses him. He grimaces at you for contact.

You apologize for saving his life un-sarcastically. Wings and halo gone.

Later, you lay around on the couch after an average dinner

watching programming so you become programmed