Thursday, June 15, 2017
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Sunday, June 11, 2017
By the good drumming, the funny drumming,
you know the pileum sail, the torch head
storied wood and shade are flummoxed at, this
coat hook and door knock, filled with crazy trill,
speeding up the dead tree rot, piercing bill,
tilting tomahawk athwart, at home in
vertical axis planes, timber listening
close to the crevices, insect presence within.
The crasher is known by his tittering
wings and strange aim, messy and meticulous;
that no place proves his gauntlet who pocks
the skulking grubs from dark: what tweak and peck
his chip-tossing labour; his dynamic neck
like Rublev's Savior, suppleness uncontested:
what flex of freedom he calls singly from
an unbreakable bridge between heart and head.
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Wanderers have made swales in the stone stairs
in Jerusalem's dolorosa;
harrow of their penitence and prayers
lithoed to melt, candled to cry hosanna.
Water garments like flags at fountain side,
roots of knees to fuel the blooming deltoids,
with thrashing paddle on the tablet's hide
they've washed and world left; footing fuller's joy.
Last instant that his feet felt earth, the Son
left imprints on the hard hill; blameless soles
pierced and holy, that were ever missioned,
that dunned went to the soiled, and water strode.
Quarried crown in turn with pilgrim touching,
as sculptures whittled to bone at the woundings,
has gristed, hollowed more the mastered rock;
by the small who follow him, little flock.