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When Angels Sing

Did you know when angels sing

it’s a foghorn

with a 1000 harmonies.

Close in your ear at night

so near you cannot move.

The tickling buzzing

of authenticities stretch

deep inside.

If you rise you are

dizzy & captured

by the intention

to walk new pathways.

For days you’ll long

to see just one lone feather

floating by your bed.

You will not find it.

What I am telling you is

the ships at sea

are not closer to God

then we

they are here in this fog sailing.

Published in Red River Review.

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Colorado Moon

Moonlight

I am thinking in the dark morning about
a moon in Arkansas or moons everywhere
every place.

Like the moons light racing through the woods last night
slanting tail of silken light dodging in and
out between the tall legs of stiff crystal trees.
So bright, big beams jog off blue snows quiet rest .

Then there is a monster of an orange crumbly
moon the tip of it’s belly slowly sinking
behind red castles of rock and spirit in
Sedona.

Or the moon you see on rough Arctic sea ice
that trails a million miles infinity round
and the place that never settles in your heart
only moments on the journey are your home.

Alone I stood at the window last night in
the light of a whole full moon ripe and ready
I wanted to be whole round and lusty here
naked to black skies everywhere, everyplace.

Published in Oak Bend Review

The Understanding

 
  The Understanding

 When was it that

I became swallowed alive by poetry?

When did it’s deep gulp of

a wing scoop me up and

carry me like a whistle

through the trees

a piece of loose paper spinning dancing?

I think it was that day I walked my mother’s

long haired Chihuahua.

He wanted to leap into the cool summer day

to run run run

in circles breathing in

panting out life.

I kept thinking about

the circle of life how everything made sense.

Spinning truth.

The giant chestnut tree a cradle over us.

The ancient air made up of molecules.

Taking in the breath of Leonardo DiVinci,

Tecumseh, Sylvia Plath, Madame Curie.

Eternal atom the death

dust of sisters, brothers.

Later I would sit by a slash of granite and find

a perfectly carved prehistoric sword tip

the hand of  my ancestors

reaching up out of the soil

to embrace me.

 -J.V. Foerster

Published by Premiere Generation Ink

Being awake!

 

Just a moment of bliss for Athena! It is a daily occurance!

Tiny mysterious worlds in ice.

Tiny worlds in ice.

I am Going to Start Living Like a Mystic

Today I am pulling on a green wool sweater
and walking across the park in a dusky snowfall.
The trees stand like twenty-seven prophets in a field,
each a station in a pilgrimage–silent, pondering.
Blue flakes of light falling across their bodies
are the ciphers of a secret, an occultation.
I will examine their leaves as pages in a text
and consider the bookish pigeons, students of winter.
I will kneel on the track of a vanquished squirrel
and stare into a blank pond for the figure of Sophia.
I shall begin scouring the sky for signs
as if my whole future were constellated upon it.
I will walk home alone with the deep alone,
a disciple of shadows, in praise of the mysteries.
-Edward Hirsch