Skip to main content

Free to choose - Amen

Every day rises precious -
precious as icebergs calving along
the Ross Shelf...
they're independent now and dwindling.
As these flocks scatter like liquid sand,
don't forget to count the moments
you watched them bob away
sapphire and regal.

Each Sunday some wiry lad wobbles
across taut ropes - slack lining,
where balance is cool.
Free to take a flying leap
on a galloping goose.
Free to stretch another line to the moon,
stitch up the ozone, resurrect islands,
renew Lake Chad.

Free to shiver off kilter and
believe it's just to our knees
we fall...begging for bruised elbows,
twisted limbs - something simple to swaddle
something small to bathe
in orange amber with an iodine swab,
better by morning.
Keep the choices easy.

Each sunny day clouds our memory
for rain, brightens this good gooey life;
soft and sweet feeds a fat bottom line
but it feels pithy to the rock
hard resolve of the Nile or the Rhine,
swallowing mountains since Methuselah.
Soft and sweet melts away in their maws.
Bare bones pray.

Precious elbow of the galloping goose,
please tip cool my wiry independence
stitch it in amber orange and wobble
the gooey ozone free, swaddling islands
tucked under liquid sand, and as
twisted lines slack abundantly toward Sunday;
bruise not the bobbing Rhine,
rising regal as our days.
Amen

Comments

blue aisling said…
This is the most tender rocky poem yet! I really love it, RMM!

Popular posts from this blog

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.

Covid Journal Entry 14

April 4, 2020 Today’s image – Exploring social cohorts. So, on campus now there is a small village of us living together, the remnants of those in residence this year.   We are an international population: seven from the US, six from Vietnam, five from China,   four from Morocco, one from the DR and two dogs/three cats.   We share four large buildings where we live, take our meals, study and exercise, on a five-acre campus. The rest of the two hundred and sixty or seventy odd community members are sheltering in their homes; some of the teachers and administrators dropping by during the week to work in their offices.   We have had little or no contact with them so far.   Our chef and his crew of two come in by rotation to prepare and serve the daily meals, a maintenance duo tend to the essential tasks and repairs, the city services haul away trash and recycling, the postal service, UPS and FedEx still deliver mail and packages.   It’s Iowa and the gove...

Momentous

This moment is liquid, breached with spring peepers, It is sandalwood smoke lifting prayers to Lakshmi, Lifting standard bearers, it ups the ante. It is a cool breeze up a cervical column,   shivering  in Morse code, a genetic ladder to the roof, to Jupiter to a far black hole in one. Nebulas yawn a kaleidoscopic Neverland promenade, and gravity waves sing their arias of emptiness and full again, in nano-rhyme, in tiny grand statements. This moment is rich in grandchildren and great grandchildren, grows thin with constant attention, runs curious as coyote, moans in silken orgasm. This moment is ready as 4 o'clock. It swirls perdition within paradise, it bobs on Adriatic waves, swells with orphans adrift, threatens to wash us away. It uncurls sad lingering memory, clings to vital shadow kin. This moment is mitosis: gold to lead, sunflowers to chickadees, you to me. It has folded the day into 366 paper cranes, each head upturned. Thi...