Know One to Preach

My vacant village…more vacant than before

Tattered, elicit affairs lay at St. Gabriel’s altar

All the residents have wrapped up testaments into a crumpled yellowed newspaper, and gone home

Golden saviors, cloaked and free of fear, are unabated…akin to flea market trinkets…nothing but grab bags of unidentified…barren bones

Diamond crusted good Samaritans with chips on their robes seem to walk the same streets as forgotten servants. Each and everyone…lost from their thrones.

Not one left to preach

Know one to preach

No one left to dictate the streets that are lone.

Rectory on the Hill

I found my wants in a pile of residual snow.

As if, it had no place left to go.

Over the wrecked rectory on the hill.

Beyond the country store where the town drunks get their fill.

Ten miles past Franklin Motel.

A habitat for the loners looking to get out of hell.

I nudged my desires with a blackened steel toe.

As if, I had no place left to go.

Years before gravity took hold.

I fanned a flame to a luxurious limbo.

It had been an overfed shelter of lust and misconstrued need.

But my flame grew higher and harder to fed.

I kicked at the embers.

Such as I do now.

With a lessened ego.

Ash to ash…I made sure it had no place left to go.

It would appear that contentment starts slow.

As in the vacant burning back lots.

As in the gradual interment of lack luster thoughts.

Standing over the stained melting snow.

I now have some place that I can go.

Helping Turtles Across the Road

So few are my misguided thoughts on religion…whilst in the arms of a golden, August day.

I could walk forever into the unknown…bathing in the silver lining of a sunflower’s intoxicating…glow.

I could even dare all tomorrow’s…in the deep, stare of a steer’s gaze.

Now and always, deep in the musky, wild…sorrow weakens.

Worry becomes less bold.

I understand all that is not mine….because the stillness of humid air tells me so.

Crab Apple perfumes my mind…

I live to let go.

All this and so much more…

helping snappers across Morrill road…

Is the only religion I need to know.

A Hymn to the Evening

Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
But the west glories in the deepest red:
So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,
The living temples of our God below!
Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,
And draws the sable curtains of the night,
Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,
At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;
So shall the labours of the day begin
More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,
Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

#Phillis Wheatley, the first African American to write a book of poetry.

Something About Mary

As ravished as the house had been, being within made me feel less broken.

The overgrown grass, sporadic dead spots on the lawn…it spoke to me of being alone with my thoughts.

Maiden Mary would greet me with her loose ways.

Twisted as she was, she encouraged me to come out of the big book and play.

Years strolled pass and Mary stayed, solidified to those that pray.

And, though she had wished me to always be well. Through her painted on tears…I could tell,

Mary had been living in a personal hell.

Could it have been that we both had were under a broken spell?