On A Pillow Of Early Morning Dew

Underneath these blades of grass
where I lay my head upon a pillow of dew,
the whispers of the early morning
creatures sing a lullaby,
a soft blanket of words and notes,
easing me into peaceful sleep.


Dying Prayer

In my time of dying
may my heart loose
its bonds
to every entanglement
it has knotted
in this life.

May the winds that move
through every tree and
leaf of grass
take my final breath
upon their whispering gusts
that I may move as they move.

In my time of dying
may I be released
and may all who remain
know me, feel me all the more,
knowing I am not gone.
I am as we all shall be.

I am as we all
were always meant to be.

Threads Taken From A Tapestry

We lapse. Falling.
A languishing
thread of certainty.

All in due time.
Make no mistake.
The mistake will find you.

Keep inside the shadow.
Keep stuck to the idea.

We shall come.
We shall rise into. . . into. . .

A shadow on the wall
and the drumbeat of
entangled cells,

pulsing. . . pulsing. . .
vibrating to the ebb
of tide on tide, wave on wave.

Come down from the mountain.
Come down from the grave.

Heartbeats are thoughts
too big to think.

A thought is a heartbeat
given proper respect.

One knowing without
knowing why.

One slowing down to see closely
what is hardly seen at all.

No Time For Place

No time for argument.
No time for hate.

All the things past
are written off as fate.

When poison seeps into
every pore in the skin,

there’s no denying
the placemat of sin

eaten off of for dying
and eaten away in regard

to the movers and shakers
and everyday noisemakers,

taking apart lives, stricken
with the soul of the Bard.

The Praying Hands

With hands, I pray.
With hands, I sing.

A silent tongue
but a gleaming eye
in every work
and every deed.

Some sing with
harp and lyre.
I sing with hammer
and chisel.

Each stroke a symphony
of ringing notes
bellowing forth from
pickaxe and saw.

The hand lightly touches
the tools of its voice

and lays grip on its song
as I begin to pray.