Sky Ripples

There are ghosts that sit
upon the lids of my eyes--
the more tired they get
the heavier they fall, and
the closer I am to evening death.
Two hands hold my heart
for it alone cannot bear suspension
There is an anchor tied down
inside my stomach churning,
dragging along the ocean's depths
and I, unafraid, plunge forward into the
darkness of the plight.
But the stars cannot contain themselves
and in death, they shine

Am I losing you, friend?
Where have you gone, and
where have I been?
I am a bruise, I fear
that grows darker--
more blue, each day
spent without you
I am just a little bit sad and
three fourths confused

sleep

You were taken
so quickly
From dust to dust, but
you had not even drifted yet.

You were a vapor, fragrant mist
not noticed but certainly
not forgotten.
She couldn't catch you,
and they.

You were parched roots of
a lonely tree who
dreamt dreams of family,
but darling, your soul was
snatched away.

Your mother held you, dying, in
her quivering arms, close
to heaven, close to heart,
but even then who can
sense the movements of
the human soul?
Behold, O mother, whose
eyes are dull with ashes--
there is water pure to cleanse.
Behold, O sister, whose
eyes serene unfeeling--
shed a tear for dormant hearts,
lest yours be still again.
Mine eyes cannot even bear
to hold their gaze!
O pain unbearable,
O darkness thick,
not long, not much longer, for
in death, we shall arise.

þú ert og það er von.

Winter tree, I saw you
shiver through the cold,
bleed your silver cuts
loose into the bark.

Winter tree, I saw you
through the distant mist
between the snow softly falling and
the hail that bruised the woods.

Winter tree, don't cry
I saw your tears run a river
I saw your fears knotted tight
--between the beauty and the death,
I saw you,
gasping for flight.

Winter tree, don't fade
though winter is grief
the promise is life.

Winter tree, have heart
though naked and raw
I saw you blossom
with the dew's fresh start

Winter tree, sing a lullaby
in desolate land;
your breath in the cold will
warm spring maidens fair
in the beauty of time due.


photo

I can't

The sadness shook the
rooms of her soul--
empty, dimmed, dry on those
heavy wooden floors.
There was an elegance fading
and around her face sang
darkness like a scarf.
Old Will sings a song;
she is young, but
her heart is weary with
the sighs of
a brother at war.
By these dying ivory doors
sat she, with
needle and thread on
her grandmother's chair.
Letters by the old crows lie
crumpled and stain'd with
the sweat of a man, his
voice alive in the pages:
he shouts, he cries, he tells of
stories of blood, of when he was lost.
But the sweetest tone is found
where the spaces meet the words
tucked beneath the creases...

"I love you"

The birds ache and flutter as
she cries her way home


photo

lost.

Father, I am but a fool
a shifting shadow in the tree
But You turn the pages of my book
just where they need to be
You lift Your breath from beneath the binding
--a fragrance sweetly rising
And this is what I am finding:
I am Yours.


photo