Category: Uncategorized

(Church of the Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ)

I.

In a small Eastern European town,
A painter swiftly walked on through the square
Of the city, past old roofs colored brown.

There was a metallic smell in the air,
Caused by the rain, once it had ceased to fall,
And there were shallow puddles everywhere.

The steeple of a cathedral rose tall
Above the cold, rigid cobblestone ground,
And statues of saints stood over each wall.

Each day before Mass, the bells would resound,
And summon the townspeople from their home
To gather and worship from all around.

They left their farms, and stopped plowing the loam,
To praise the Lord beneath a spacious dome.

II.

As the painter entered through the front door,
His eyes met the dark, and the air was cold,
And a soft light reflected on the floor.

The candleholders lined up past the old
Wooden benches slowly guided his view,
Through the daylight, to an altar of gold.

As he walked down the aisle, past the front pew,
He looked up above the altar, and saw
The colored glass gently sparkled with dew.

Admiring the altarpiece with awe,
He saw a statue of his Holy King,
Which was crafted without a single flaw.

He looked up at the cathedral ceiling,
And a choir of angels began to sing.

III.

With the first strokes of his brush, he began
Painting an image upon the plaster—
Envisioning a beautiful woman.

Diligently, he kept working faster—
As her heavenly form was developed,
He painted with the skills of a master.

Throughout each day that he labored, he hoped
For this to be his finest work ever,
And made sure his scaffold was safely roped.

As he painted her clothes, he was clever
In how he had selected each color—
The whole process was quite an endeavor.

Every day, she came to life even more,
And he worked harder than ever before.

IV.

With the Blessed Virgin now completed,
The artist began constructing Her throne—
Where She would remain peacefully seated.

A young child soon sat in Her lap alone,
Reigning as the only begotten Son—
The pair had taken on lives of their own.

Once the two angels above them were done,
The painter crafted a star to be seen,
And the Three Magi soon joined everyone.

They all surrounded the Heavenly Queen,
To bring gifts and adore the newborn boy,
Recalling the art from the Byzantine.

The painter looked at the scene with great joy,
And gave a silent thanks for his employ.

V.

The painter gently lowered his scaffold—
Once he reached the floor, he looked back up high,
And watched the Nativity Scene unfold.

The Christmas Star lit up the late-night sky
Over where the Madonna and Her child
Were seated—Where the peaceful angels fly.

All who had come from near and far were filed
Up in lines on each side to praise their King,
And the young baby Jesus softly smiled.

Each of those who approached held gifts to bring
To His Majesty on this holy night,
And their prayers rose above each angel’s wing.

As the painter’s eyes scanned from left to right,
He reveled in its ethereal sight.

VI.

The bishop arrived the following day,
And the clergy were now allowed access,
To view the painter’s new work on display.

At each future service they would address,
They knew the painting would always hold true
To them, and all the townspeople they bless.

The sight of Mary dressed in white and blue
Brought hope for miracles to be restored—
Causing their faith and their peace to renew.

Each Sunday, their prayers rose up toward
This large painting of His Majesty’s birth—
As they all gathered to worship the Lord.

A constant reminder of the true worth
Of good will towards men and peace on Earth.

VII.

The painter’s new work had been met with praise,
And after he walked out, waving his hand,
The people’s excitement went on for days.

As worshipers came from across the land,
To see what others were talking about,
They were greeted with a feeling quite grand.

People continued to come in and out—
Every time the painter walked down the street,
Some people would clap and joyfully shout.

And he would shout on the tips of his feet,
“The glory is His! It should not be mine!”
These very words he would always repeat

For those who patiently waited in line
To eat the Lord’s bread and to drink His wine.

I hope you know that even as I boarded the last train of the evening
I haven’t forgotten for one moment
About our playground meetings

I remember those long and cloudless days
When the clothes on our backs felt like sandpaper to an eczema patch
Our face and shoulders kissed so good
By the sun’s loving, open rays

Melted popsicle juice between our fingertips
Was our strategy for better grip
To log the days accurately
We’d throw the sticks down to the woodchips
As we lunged and pulled ourselves through hazardous metal structures

We’d watch the last colors left in the day bleed out over the sky
Like oil paints spilling into every kind of strange hue
Moments before grays and dark blues from dirty brushes
Polluted their vibrancy
And ran them cool in time to soak the moon
And soothe the stars that dunk in, too

Like plastic water bottles, leaves, or even your ipod tunes
Eventually the breezes picked us up and carried us in two
Leaving our skin full of goose bumps and bruises
A twig or so would catch in my hair
And uproot my braids
Of mother’s hard and loving care

Each night I’d be greeted by the click of her tongue
And the sliding of yarn in her fast-paced crochet
She shook her head from side to side
“Such a crazy girl,”
She said with wrinkles between her eyes
“To think anyone could outrun the sun”

I didn’t say bye when I left
And I hadn’t bothered to raid her purse
I took what little cents I had left from various cash transactions
And bought me a train ticket from Seattle to San Diego-
39 hours, said the ticket guy, but that’s at worst

I sat alone
On a cold steel seat

Curled into a ball
Sketching calligraphy prints with an earbud on each side
As I leaned against the window pane
I watched the otters hug and duck to play beneath the tide
I played guitar music on cd
The kind you told me was good because you can’t hear
“Whatever the hell they sayin’”
Awaiting my arrival to the farther south
Where the sun waits a little longer in the year to fall.

A stag leaps across the board run,
ditch to ditch, thorns to thorns,
muscles, music, obsidian eyes focused
to aspens beyond his landing.

Those blessed to see such things once,
and never again, carry the frames
of that motion into the story of their days,
compare the totality of all other beauty
to the flight of dun fur across the November
sky, a late afternoon ballet, a dance
that never ends in the mind’s open eye.

“A heavy package came in the mail today,
I put it under the tree, a gift, right?”

Gray haired, wrinkled grumpy feminine frown.
Raised on a cotton farm, three of ten.
Just another field hand, wasn’t time for much love.
Time for survivin’, and a green elm switch.

Sixteen and married, “Good for nothin! Sat on the porch.
Always grabbin’ me here, or down there.
Drinkin’ and Spittin’, put a black skillet upside his head.
Drug him out feet first, that ended his abuse.”

Kids came and went, grandkids, too.
“Tried to love ’em, but didn’t really know how.
Saved a bunch from waitin’ table, Sullivan’s bar and restaurant,
Three dead husbands, hard, but I survived!”

Lived in a smokey apartment, big black bible, rockin’ chair.
they came and went, payin’ their family dues.
Each wanting a piece of the pie.
“If you’ve got a quarter, save a nickel of it.”

Finally, spending too much on nursing home care,
She died, consumed and eaten from deep inside.
Faithful sons learned her lessons well –
“Funeral’s too expensive, dump her ashes someplace, anyplace.”

“This package came in the mail today”,
A childish voice informed me.
“I put it under the Christmas tree, a gift, right?”
“Yes, I mused, “A Gift….”

When I gaze up at the blue sky
and wonder what I have done

to not be able to fly,
the sky falls;

a river, light looping around my arms and legs
slowly falling with rain that hits my open eye

poisonous flowers; human emotions often lie

Create. Destroy. Craft. Then rest.
Trying to resist the pull of relapse.
Create. Destroy. Craft.
But a void stirs quietly beneath the skin.
Submit. Rejected. Dejected.
Try again.
Send another.
Apply once more.
One hundred rejections deep.
Create. Destroy.
Tethered to the life of my art.
Shards of doubt press inward, sharp and constant.
Doubt. Shout. Create. Destroy.
Create. Submit.
Create. Craft.
Bound to this aching need to make.
Rejected. Never accepted.
Despondent, I fall back again.
Create. Craft. Bound. Submit.
Create. Craft. Bound. Submit.
Create. Craft. Bound. Submit.
And then—
Accepted. Relieved. Seen. Accepted.

Tiny Opossum
Treed, and eating an onion
Reflective eyes bright

Bit, baby turtle
I almost mowed off your head
Silence, I saved you

Crows, murderous crows
We exchanged shiny gifts once
You ate my pepper

Skinny Deer of night
Your eyes are so brightly lit
Seen only by light

Raccoon of the woods
Bandit eater of night trash
The cutest felon

Great gray fox sneaker
You sleuth in shadows covert
What does the fox say

Stray cats of Piedmont
Frivolous fights of feral
Who feeds you catnip

Goofy turkey tom
long neck bird of autumn’s din
Roast at three fifty

Blue-tailed skink hiding
I saw you slither away
Will you sit with me

Skunk of black and white
Putrid sprayer of my dog
I smelled you for months

One always imagines the little bird in the forest
through which it flies
until it reaches a clearing
in the green and sunlight

But what if this little bird dreams of the sea
and feels trapped in the meadow within the woods

It dreams of storms
of salty drops of water
chasms
grottoes
waves that threaten to swallow it whole
and winds that will carry it away

The little bird is weary of the green,
uneasy among the trees
Furiously, it flies to the clearing
clutching a branch with bitter claws

The little bird wants to taste stones
feel cold dampness beneath its feathers
and be overwhelmed by the North

That enchanting smile that
you left turns me into an
ocean of serenity. I remember
your deep, bright eyes looking at
me with admiration whenever I
look up into the sky. Rest in peace,
my dear loved one.

Brown hoodie, faded letters
Lined with fleece and cloth
Might be old, but never better,
I’m not all too posh.
Inside these folds of cotton
I peer out with only eyes
With hands stuffed in my pockets,
I tell myself not to cry.
My knees up to my chest,
And the fabric’s tight in an embrace
That gives me the comfort
I can’t find in no one’s face.
With the drawstring tight,
I pull myself into a cocoon
With the drawstring tight,
I peer for the last time at the moon.
And suddenly there’s
Red and blue
There’s sound, but I can’t hear it
And black dots pepper my view
When finally I come to,
I lay in a white bed
With a hood about my head
And empty holes around the neck
Where the drawstring don’t poke through.