First Selection, July, 2012

Busy

Last night the Moon came looking for me,
Poker, football, no time now.

This morning Life came looking for me,
The phone rang, Waterboarding, Starving children,
Handball at six, see you then, someone ought to do something.

This evening Death came looking for me,
I’m reading a good book, it’s very interesting,
I have a new girlfriend, I’m sure this one will be the one,
Can you come back later?

The Moon just laughed.

--Joe Mancuso

2nd and 3rd Selections, July 2012

White One,

will you carry this message

for me,

that someone

might see it written

in the shadows you cast?

--Birrell Walsh

red bird
     goldfinch
                    bluebird
          alight
on the branch of a white flowered tree


--Patrick Mizelle

Fourth July Selection, 2012

There has to be something under this
I can feel it.
The way I became obsessed with forgiveness
the theology of it
after that night.


I thought that in forgiving
rushing there
I might get back to the ground
that unground


To God
Who I needed
and thought I could find
on that mountain

He choked me
with arms that read
Om Mani Padme Hum

We were buying our enlightenment

Your level 5 beat my 1  

I stopped climbing 

I came down the mountain

looking for the home 

where we lived before the words

and the prayers

and the spiritual tattoos

the mistakes that lost us

So

Whatever is underneath,

I know that

it is not the ink 

that makes the book holy

and mountains are just piles of dirt

that go up and down

and that you will forgive

me 

when I stand in the pulpit

boldly preaching the wrong directions

Just like you forgave us all 

the minute we left. 

--“Rachel”

Fifth July 2012 Selection

Image of Mercy

Image of mercy

her two hands hold a grace

full space

the wind blows her gown around

her stillness

replaced

haltingly

on a shelf in this half-bombed-out apartment

the old woman's

lower lip

trembles

these wars are mine

yet not

the white-haired woman in black

is alone in the ruined building 

and there is no signal

to reach her I must drive

from dark path to dark path

pocky ruts, bomb craters, soldiers, debris,

and history block the way

my language is foreign

our enemies' faces are unclear

what I can do 

and what she needs

disparate

hurriedly I swallow the rest of my tea

my hands on the steering wheel are still the same hands

holding this wheel      

history trembling

praying

to hold enough history to be able to lay it down

the hands beside me in the car,

gray, taut, with nails full of grit,

the hands loading the truck with food,

deft, large-knuckled, raw,

the hands that flash the signal in the darkness

mercy

the hands that axe open the door

grace

the hands that pick through the rubble

may find a broken porcelain image

hands graceful

which might be mended

the wind blows her gown around

her stillness

--Deanna Hopper