Some Days Road

So often it seems

I am road kill

on life's highway

hit from behind

blind sided both sides

ending in the ditch

face down in the mire

of my own frailties,

a bundle of rags

surrounding a bruised heart

that still insists on singing.

What is it to love

a stranger that you know?

Be forced to watch over

the enemies' fires

or rail against the limitations

found behind, it seems,

every turn in this road.

To be still long enough

will gather the silence,

slowly to fill the void

gaping hole in my heart

having bounced against

life's reality,

now sighs with resignation

in search of ways

to see over ditch walls

blocking the sun's warmth

I would go beyond

these shadowed and mired times.

Inside The Dawn

The view from the Cross

gets clearer now

 these years have

trained me to its embrace.

The fiery pain

uniting my soul into

its eternal reality

sustains my aching heart

left bleeding by the

darkness of sinful states.

From this vantage point

I can see the dawn

rising clear and quiet

upon the horizon

where only my inner eye

watches from

this place of repose

upon the wooden beams

far beyond the scene of

mortal crimes

our race is so intent upon.

One day this death of self

will step inside the dawn

I see moving in

 tender fingers of sunlight
caressing downward

these mountain slopes to

whom I will bid farewell,

and, as the song says,

 be gone

like the dawn turns to day.

Where Magic Dwells

We are created

to be hungry for stories,

told and treasured

in myths, fairy stories,

unto parables and proverbs,

(to ponder in our length of days)

given as

food for the wayfarer's soul.

There are those who

cry out against imagination,

condemn Harry Potter

as bad magic

yet, it is these very people

often in high places,

who would treat the Holy Eucharist

as magic.

Don't get me wrong.

It is the wayfarer's holy bread

when in the state of grace.

Indeed, it as a magic potion

transforming death to life.

However,

in the sorry state of sin

it will poison the soul

with condemnation and grief.

Unworthily eaten

it cannot save your soul.

Be careful, you who are guardians of

this greatest Treasure,

the words of St. Catherine

might be pronounced against you

for she says

God will use you to feed his flock

then send you into that fiery darkness

imagination could only hint

in stories told.

Harry knew all about these evils

fought constantly in battles

unasked for.

Even he had to practice

magic's hard daily work of living,

finding love where there isn't any.

Autumn Cloud

I would be that cloud

spread grey upon the mountain top

lounging along the ridges

like Cleopatra herself

surveying this valley

on a sight seeing excursion

in autumn.

There from the heights

I would gaze into this valley

where first I opened my eyes

in a time of peace and plenty,

and one day to see with final gaze

all that is born must die.

Sometimes memory takes me prisoner,

it makes me step into

the warmth and brightness

found in that childhood kitchen,

 the gathering cold of season changes

once more creeping with icy fingers,

leaving the country darkness deep around,

excluded from that warm and safe abode.

There are times when Time is a bus

whose steps I descend

to slip quietly away

like that cloud

into memory filled

with light still shining bright.

Dots

The crows fly home as evening

spreads them like black dots

against the fading light

falling as darkness dwells

with stars in the night sky

reflecting so many points of

light our gazing eyes

are drawn to.

Upon the printed page

the music notes wait patient

their turn to sound those

mysterious marks, dots on

a page written

not unlike the Impressionist brush

dividing color into single dabs

across a vision on canvass.

All these small marks, even

those that divide words

into sentence and phrase,

symbol my life,

a single dot in history's

long and arduous way.

It is easy to be overwhelmed

by this reality

of small and finite being.

There is a sacred space

found hidden in the marks

deep on hands and feet

outstretched upon a cross

where I find refuge

and meaning

To the insignificance of this self.

My Fan

I am in love with my fan

these hot, humid days of summer.

I refer not to the human kind

that stand on street below

eyes raised towards my window

bothering me by flash and noise.

No, a box shape electrical in motion

sits on my window sill

swirling air to coolness in the

darkness fallen oppressed by the heat of day.

Its steady noise hides all,

protects me from the madness of sounds:

the cars that roar up the street

always it seems in a hurry,

hides the conversations broadcasting

beyond the intimacy of porches

bouncing yard boundaries

into windows gaping with the heat,

muffles the drunks sent home

by closing signs on bars

their drunken soliloquy kept

far from my silent slumbers.

The bliss of white noise and wind

blowing from my electric watchman

the outside world cannot intrude

on my poor thoughts

relishing the morning coolness

I lie curled within its safety

giving me sweet pause

in readiness to face the dawn.

To a Youth

I cannot follow you down

through that winding path you choose

in tangles of forest undergrowth

I fear the evil presence

who lives somewhere nearby

above those sharp rocks

underneath the perilous

overhang of cliffs.

I wandered there many

years ago from now

the deadly one caught me unawares,

my heart was torn

left bleeding in the dawn

before a sunless sky.

I cannot follow you down

my steps will not leave

the sureness of the chosen path

leading ever upwards

into the shining light of day

I reach back into the shadows

with hope for that day

you send your gaze upwards

through all those leaves of grass

and see into that sky

we were born to call our home.