The joy of breath

The joy of breath                                                                                     

It’s like sewing the torn seam of a treasured jacket –

needle pushed in, pulled out to patch the rend

that lets the chill in and the warmth escape. 

You might say His name with each stroke if you’ve a mind to

and go through the day with mercy in your throat;

like a swinging gate awhisper on well-oiled hinges –

you keeping a nearby watch to chronicle the traffic,

follow your thoughts where you will and leave off

where you must -- stand and observe

the lone traveler disappearing against the sky.

Wherever you end up, the gate will follow,

ready for you to take up your post again.

 

You won’t change much (coming in/going out) –

your deportment, perhaps, discernment,

your rash decisions, easy attachments.

O seamster, name-dropper, sentinel, spy!

holy, holy witness, knowing only the moment,

inside and out, and the primal joy of breath!

O child of God, will you ride the ox or 

chase forever behind its random wanderings?

My only treasure

My only treasure

I have no merit of any measure
to offer You, my Lord, in trade --
Your compassion is my only treasure.

Empty handed, half-hearted gestures
to fend off Your righteous blade.
I have no merit of any measure.

At Your mercy, at Your leisure; 
salvation undeserved, I'm afraid.
Your compassion is my only treasure.

Purity surely the Beloved's pleasure --
Your life a chaste and silent upbraid --
I have no merit of any measure.

My wayward heart, shaped to pressure,
ventured where its willfulness bade.
Your compassion is my only treasure.

Before You, bereft of holy vesture,
in my nakedness sorely displayed,
I have no merit of any measure --
Your compassion is my only treasure.

                      (Unpublished)

The blade of remembrance

The blade of remembrance                                                           

First, it merely pares away

the unwanted debris,

holding your heart hostage –

until it tosses you into the street –

down which you wander

out into the wilderness

where it becomes an implement

to scale and explore

the vaulting edifice,

to gain a hand or foothold

in the scattered veins and crevices,

scrambling along the daunting face. 

But, it’s employed

more opportunely later –

sunk deeply into the chest

to strike a vein, to plunder the treasure

deeper than the heart,

whittling one’s self to a straw,

for the narrow, twisted passageways

within a vast, interior territory.

O child of God, let His name remind you of the nature

of the dream appearing continuously before your eyes.