There is Something in Us That Loves Broken Things

There is Something in Us That Loves Broken Things
There is something in us that loves broken things.
That which has almost touched angel wings.
He who has heard the words seraphim sing,
and felt the hand of God so near.


In such vulnerability beauty resides
stripped of the veneer where ugliness hides.
It's purity restored by the violent tides,
and our need to witness the fear.


To rescue and be the hero with might,
take what is wrong and shape it to right.
Bring that which is dead back into light.
The seduction of resurrection is clear.


Cinquains of Wind
Trees sway.
Winds push and pull,
ripping apart old limbs.
They crash down, angry at being
broken.


The wind
screams its fury
and whips all living things.
Rage is visible even through
hot tears.


Behind
my teeth, dirt hides
gritty on my tongue.
I hate when it blows hard and fast
on me.



Falling Off the Wagon
Sanity is an acquired taste,
an act of will,
a diet for the soul.


I think I shall fall off the wagon
and have a thick slice of weirdness this morning


a huge helping of idiosyncrasies for lunch
with oddities on the side,


a sumptuous repast of outlandish behavior 
to sup upon,


and go to bed with satisfaction on my smile
and a promise on my lips to be much, much better tomorrow.


Silenced
Someone stole my words--
forced me into muteness.
Thrust his fist down my throat, 
and choked me on his flesh.
Filled my mouth with muscle--
I drowned on sweat and skin.
Burrowing his fingers, inside me deep,
he pried loose my language and thought.


When he had them all in hand,
his arm popped out like a cork
and left me devoid of sound.


Before he vanished, for good measure
I received a parting kick.
He sewed my lips tightly shut
and laughed at my despair.

Puddle Jumper
When did the world begin to shrink?
How long ago like a muscle clenched
did oceans contract to puddles
and individuals disappear?
Years tightened like evaporating drops of rain,
and I never noticed.


I can touch its edges now.
Hand to hand, only a shoulder span apart.
I run my fingers along uneven, puckered seams
and marvel at the scar tissue
healed from history's violence.


Moving here to there and back,
I am a slip stream of time to race
jumping with one held breath
into ever smaller
space.

It's a Plan 
It's a plan, man.
Can't you understand?
Or are your shaking knees
saying, "Please....
don't make me do this."