Unravelling and weaving, sometimes simultaneously

The Cusp

The March wind,

neither lion nor lamb,

stirs the early buds and clover;

the breath of a chimera,

cupidinously warm

against the tender leaves and petals,

a lulling lie coaxing fuller bloom

before the frost has fully left the field

for its season of sleep.

Somewhere in the top of the pecan,

whose wise branches click together,

continuing bare,

a crow in her nest caws out,

and the echoes of response

radiate across the false blue sky,

morning warning,

a shivering siren:

Winter is not gone yet;

do not lay down your guard…

don’t listen to the capricious March wind.

(c) RCGA 2019

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On the Occasion

I don’t suppose anniversaries of birth

matter to anyone but the living…

 

after all, it’s a marking of time

that is no longer relevant

for a soul in the ether.

 

But I

am

still alive,

and so your birth day,

the concept of the cycle

when you first took breath

on this plane we shared

means something

to me.

 

Blessings on your nativity,

soul that floats,

spirit that resides

outside the concept of time.

Thank you for coming here.

 

The Good Book says

our years on this earth

are threescore and ten,

yet you only stayed

for half of that tenure.

 

Perhaps you had other things

to do.

 

I can only hope that somewhere

along your journey,

you recall the revolutions of the sun

that marked our years together,

and when you do

this clear and bright blue day

reminds you of

the kind of love

we’re capable of here.

 

© RCGA 2019

Echoes

In a couple of days you would have been 40. The brass plaque is cold when I say hello, colder even than that empty side of the bed.

The Mystic Fool

I had a dream last night
while I was huddled
beneath my blankets
my back to the empty side
of the bed
that you lifted the covers
and slipped in beside me
knees behind knees
hand on my belly

your warm breath
against my ear
carried the words
I love you
down into
the empty cavern
of my heart
a familiar and coveted echo
I still hear
in resounding rounds
this foggy gloaming

though your body
is gone
and that side of the bed
is cold
in the morning light

(c) RCGA 2014

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Colorblind

God isn’t “colorblind”.
We were created with marvellous variety
and an artist’s joy.
Beautiful, unique, precious beings
all made from the same materials.
Can’t you tell?
There is no preference
in the Master’s handiwork.
All are made with love.
All reflect the majesty of origin,
and the humble source of our structure.
We are all clay,
molded to the preference
of a natural wisdom.
When we look at each other
we should not be blind, either.
We should be dazzled,
humbled,
impressed.

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RCGA 2019

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marilyn goddess

(c) RCGA 2019

You can patch many a broken thing.
You can edit a poem, rewrite music.
You can stitch a button on, or bondo a vehicle’s frame.
You can do a lot of things, repair a lot that’s fallen to pieces.
For the most part, it just takes the right supplies, and effort.
Maybe a little determination, and love.
 
But you can’t fix another person,
no matter what you have.
They can only fix themselves,
and then, only if they want to.
 
So don’t be fooled by your skills in other areas
by your great capacity for love
or your strength of will,
or patience.
 
There are things in this world
that are not designed to be fixed by you
and other people
are number one on that list.
(c) RCGA 2019

Respite

Be quiet, Muse.

Be silent as the night clouds

curtaining the moon,

not even a single sound

disturbing the dark shade

drawn across that glowing face

hiding her distant compassion,

the immortal sadness

she feels yet is unable to extend

any more than I can reach her

by crying.

Keep your counsel.

Tonight is not the time

to stir my mind and hands

and ride me like a shadowed mare

until I shiver and froth

drained and absent of light

out in the open

no succor

no haven

no drumming breast

to cradle my dizzy head to rest.

Please hush.

The hands of the clock

have come together,

a prayer at midnight.

I embrace the emptiness

like a lover

with relief and drained wonder,

waiting for the winter’s breath

to slide the clouds aside

and reveal a white so bright

it steals my pain.

full_moon_with_clouds

(c) RCGA 2019

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