Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane

In the Scars of the Tree

In the scars of the tree,
I see beauty.
Why less so in me?
My fingers trace the deformities
that give witness to wood’s history.

Yet in my heart what I think is ugly
is not what the Carpenter sees
for within its wounded tapestry
is the vessel for divinity.

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane

Mechanic

Do I want a God who fixes everything?

Or One who sits with me when I am broken?

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Blue Smoke

2007-05-30 by kmls

There is pain here.
It hovers in the air above your head like the blue smoke from your cigarette.
It peeks around the corner of a dark doorway.
It eases up to you and breathes across the hairs on the back of your neck.

There is pain here
and it stands right behind you,
up close, pressed against your back
with its arms wrapped tight around you like an overprotective
parent.  Don’t go.
I mean the world is a very cruel place.
You’ll get hurt.
You’ll be broken.
There will be people out there who will see your pain and they will laugh.
They won’t laugh with you, they will laugh at you.
So stay here, close the door, and hide inside.
Don’t go.

You don’t want to be broken.

But isn’t that what we’re supposed to be . . . broken?
Isn’t that what we all are . . . broken?
Look around you.
There is pain here.
It’s not standing behind or hovering in the air above us or peeking around the doorway.
It’s inside.
It’s in pieces,
scattered like the shards of a mirror in the bathroom
of our hearts.

Bad luck, baby.
Seven years bad luck.

Written March 3, 1996

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree, Poems, The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane

Consolidation

society in its current form seems to
be geared towards fragmentation

i am not a double minded man
i am a triple minded
even a legion minded man

the projects i begin take on a
life of their own until i am
pulled in so many different
directions i am nothing more
than a spinning weather vane
in a howling storm

it is not easy to break free
to cut away the artistic ties
that bind me but i have done so

this is now the sole repository
of my ongoing story
the other blogs have been
folded into this one

hopefully some of the inevitable
fragmentation will end and
my life will be more holy
and whole

Posted in Poems

Shot Gun

My plant weeps with me;
a drop splashes on my head.
I, like a bird shot from the sky,
lying here in the darkness.

I will never understand the strange,
unfortunate occurrences of everyday life
or why they make me shrivel up inside
like this broken-winged bird which cannot fly.

Crippled wings can mend and wounded birds can fly again, I, waiting here in the darkness for the wind.

March 19, 1992