Wednesday, July 18, 2012

First Selection, July, 2012


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
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

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
when I stand in the pulpit
boldly preaching the wrong directions

Just like you forgave us all 
the minute we left. 


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
on a shelf in this half-bombed-out apartment
the old woman's
lower lip
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
hurriedly I swallow the rest of my tea
my hands on the steering wheel are still the same hands
holding this wheel      
history trembling
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
the hands that axe open the door
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