A golden gift from Master,
precious beautiful eye that I
see so clearly that I
shut the other remaining carnal orb.
It's tiger brown now fading, mortal.
Fleshly beauty once whole
now a patchwork of my Father's hand.
An artist does not return to a
completed landscape, rather he
brushes strokes for a masterpiece,
scribbles notes for an Opus,
ponders words for a poem.
As I roam this dusty place
fellow creatures
see shiny golden features
yet Sorrow and Suffering
never let go of my hands.
As if a woman midway
through a cosmetic makeover.
Cutting off flesh
of nightmarish proportions,
my reward far greater
than that of silicone.
Gritting teeth
through precise incisions,
forced to feel each painful emotion,
no medications.
Paradox remains.
Golden hand of soft caress,
a flesh hand of feeble distress.
Gold lips of holy kisses
"Law of Kindness" the tongue misses.
Shimmery hawk eye neighbors
a barren and blind socket.
Come Master, complete your work in me.
Let me be your living Mona Lisa,
your Moonlight Sonata.
Do not listen to flesh screams
that beg you away.
Grace for a patchwork bride.
Give what can never be taken,
your gifts.
New trials.
New creation.

An Eden Moment

Imprisoned, saddled
heaving household
soiled linins
cook clean dance.
Glance at mouse,
who carefully grooms,
breathes life into
dusty tombs.
Flowers struggle
murky waters,
the strongest hold
heads up high.
Soul revived by
creature and blooms.
Whispers of contentment
flirt with my heart.
Bewildered at
a moment of Eden
on my kitchen table.

Broken

Small hands
weave stories,
wispy waves, she
quiets shackles
under garment graves.
A slave to
selfish ambition no
premonition of
wrath seeds,
soiled path
thwarted by one
she needs. He
holds the shimmer
keys for this
slave girl amiss,
calms fears as
she feebly walks. Yet
keeps looking down,
phantoms nip at feet.
Frail wings
too week.
Rays of bright
light
still
bleak,
bittersweet.

Dirty Hands

He arrives at ten past the hour,
other good fellows bow heads and
sneak peaks at the man who's
streaked jeans emit a odor of offense.
Slice of meet and greet served, thick paws
stained and bruised handshakes.
Eyes squint smiles, lips mumble names.
Salutation games. Sit, listen, hope
to have the heart quicken.
Swift sermon, he missed the good
music. The band will drum up some
more for dad and clan to
worship the Maker with dirty hands.

Memorial Day at the Mall

I'm a wandering zombie, I mindlessly
choose tacos, beans and rice and
watch other mice at eating stations.
Sliced, diced or minced, flesh offerings
consumed by hungry eyes starving for
more than the warmth of a pita pocket.
I stagger towards sales and
get sideswiped in a dragnet of shoes,
two cougar Barbies hoping to find
redemption in six inch heels and
perceptions of sun kissed calves.
Magnets draw me to
miniature clothing,
red, white and blue.
Drag bags through
Babylonian alleyways
Memorial day's modern function.
New toys in the cage of consumption.

Communion

Gaze upon the bleak color of wine.
Whispering I tear a piece,
soft from the larger body.
Like Jonah, I thrust bread into
dark seas,
God's mercies.
Haunts of His voice chill,
soul still.
Grape and crust
thrust into mouth,
promises swallowed, believed.
Received, tart treasure,
forgiveness, praying to
survive the storm.

All That Jazz

Baby's boogers blow.
Daughter's disdain grows,
little brother flairs his nose.
Doors slam,
crashing cymbals of symphony.
Strings of whining whimpers
Horns belt out bellows.
Percussion of pattering feet.
This is no symphony,
it's all jazz baby.
Mom snaps her fingers,
the chaotic
beauty,
beat of family.