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| 'Given' by Lisa Yuskavage © |
Each day my hands clasp
a prayer to Her wholly trinity
where I wear what I swear my allegiance to
each morning I become aware
I am seared with this insistence
an amplification, a supplication and mollification of ego
mason jars of jellied laughter await
those breaking of fasts with tea and toast
most Life is vacations
and not seeing such slays the wise
which is why being on the road
is for those that enjoy the ride
journey-ists are artists
willing bones and soul past
future aggregate material sacred
we scar and are scared
when we are dared
past comfort
She says with a smile
this is the language
we all ought strive to know
it sounds like a bare armed tree song
with the wind rushing in
from the partly rolled down window
I scan back and forth
across the road
painted lanes and sides
I remark in squint hark to myself
even in bright daylight
electric lines crackle with anticipation
they feed the dissonance
dampen resonance dancing ...
the radio suddenly comes on
hiss and static then factory sized machine angels in choir
"There is no sanctuary and discord
has been around since soon after the printing press
when we began teaching others to teach
how not to teach the masses the glory
and power of cellular infinity aka
why do we have telomere breakdown ..."
I shudder
think of how
and how long
my cells
have been
compromised
by intention
in the hush pattered moments
when alone in ponder
the traipsed intertwined laces
of conscious will, will place us
where We want to be ...
my little collection :
(an obtuse clever play on name or definition)
how many poems
are carved
onto your soul
scabs in the rain
finding pieces
fit me eaten
a nose, says brain
eyes, jealous, says soul
cry imaginative memory
invocation & wine
automatic surreptitiously serendipitous
the thrust of Life is fall fly do what soul must
send regards, it's snowing again, February
and the road is quietly beautiful
and dangerous
as entertainment
that is so fucking weird
a gloaming light no wade motel
kind of living part of a
microwave background
witching hour forays
egg laying weaver
Her house is in the trees
calendrical leaves and needles
knee palms belly crawling calliopes
whistle sounds muffled in the frozen night
wolves howling why we dig marrow
I Love Her too is hand written
corner embraces, destinations may be
tourist truck stop paper place mats
with all fifty states and roadside attractions
She has me
in wobble smile tarantella
I am wet clay in Her hands
my poems, pulse bleeding
tongues, rivers and rain
I'd explain more
but you get the idea
how being
held and holding
what cup is pouring
and what cup is storing what needs
find limb and articulation ...
I am on a lazy susan
in the middle of the floor, We have
drawn a circle 1-13 indicated
salt, shaved rust and costumed rubies adorned
She sends me spinning 2 what O'clock we R now
mystery to wild card to clutched bed sheet roses
poses We made roles in the patterned chaos
bloodstains down Our forearms
like inland deltas
feeding the grass lands
after the desert of Winter
cedes to Mother may eye
Spring again ...
We find ourselves
spun, picking wild flowers
and divinations
from the litter we picked up
along the ways
into what tales
the children
of the Miller's daughter
and Rumpelstiltskin, tell us
excitedly as we pulled over
a when and then
turned towards morning
here and now, a cow
and those magic beans
gold for straw again
and all the things
We hold court for
inside Ostara, shell,
yolk and surprise inside
the waiting births
each and every sunrise
EJR ©
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