How The Soul Moves (and more poems)

steeple-church-back-light-religion-god

How the soul moves

It must be a tricky business
it lingers, hovers stealthily
an invisible silence
a swift inhabitation
the soul awaits
to startle the body

In wordless voice
it moves from room to room
turning lights on
spends a lifetime
ever longing
to be heard

In other countries

Somewhere in a dream
in other countries, never mapped, a man was speaking
though I did not understand, there was never any plan
and I listened to the wind and rain upon the trees.
With no church bells to ring, and birds were the chorus
There in the forest, a silent steeple stood standing on its own
became a wild bird’s home, wrapped in thorny vines
a crown that stained, red berries bled upon my hands.
Mary was there too, she was looking through
a broken window pane, whispering my name
and too, the forest sang, bathing me in love
and with the birds I flew, silently into
a deeper dream, until I woke at dawn
to fragrant flowers on the lawn
remembering such heaven

Amnesia

Winter’s unsteady weather
cold, cold, hot desert
on this walkabout with severe angles of sun
icy mornings drip into the sweat of day
the impasse of giant stones, the gods have laid
to stop or climb another way
egos travel irretrievable, sink into what is real
here we scale thorny towers of denial
revealed, peeled in layers – to cry, to smile
meanwhile, awakened from
the sleep of our amnesia



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