Welcome to the poetry collection of Kharis Courtney. Scroll through to browse all poetry,
or click one of the titles below to view a specific piece.




Poetry focused on romantic feelings and relationships.



Our Seasons

April 3, 2010

We met in spring, but couldn't stay
For the summertime drew near
And your skin flushed redder than your hair
While the sun beat down on both our ears.

Now summer peels off our skins
Like old paint does from the walls
And our underlayers, pink and fresh,
Sting sharply in the breeze of fall.

But when fall turns to winter--
As it always likes to do--
We'll have grown new hides together
And I'll face the frozen earth with you.

To be Loved as a River

October 24, 2010

Once upon my life
I tried to be a lake for him:
Still as Rodin's captured kiss;
Smooth as polished waterglass.
For his love stood strong
As long as he sailed across me
Never to face a single wave;
A sheet of rain or thunder's crash.

But oh, how the storms and winds did come!
And how he ran when his boat was tossed!

With no false rower
Left to bind me and remind me
Of my self imposed placidity,
The raging tempests had their way.
Not even a stone-set kiss
Can contain its passion forever;
And even the strongest glass
Shatters when it meets a hurricane.

And oh, what glory in uncoiling from upon myself--
In turning from a lake to a river that meets The Sea!

And now that I flow
With unbridled current and with
Twisting turns to navigate,
You choose not to row or sail,
But rather to dive.
You immerse yourself into me
As I am, fierce in beauty and
With quiet strength enough to shake you.

Oh, to think that I could have been loved so all my life!
And yet could I live again, I would have it no other way--
For how much sweeter to be loved as a river when
Until now, I knew love only by making myself a lake!

Words Unspoken

October 25, 2010

This hour slows, but my thoughts are racing
around vague wishes of words unspoken.
These flit through my mind, reckless.
Quickly--dangerously--on pulsating wings
borrowed from the hummingbird
they struggle to alight where they have not been invited.

Had I the courage to ask them to stay,
they might make a home deep within me
and remain nestled there for centuries, growing
and prospering with each passing of the day.
With triumph they would sing their song to you
from sunrise to sunrise, never ceasing, not even wavering.

But as it is, these words unspoken
dare not land while fear and pride deny them rest.
Thus with beating wings and feather-light spirit
they flock 'round my heart; create violent gale-storms.
They throw into tumult what has remained untouched
and protected by walls of doubt for countless decades.

Those words will not pass my lips,
I swear it. And yet minute by minute,
brick by brick, my barrier crumbles beneath
the strength of a question in these unwanted winds:
Could it be that if these words make their home
inside me, unspoken no more, you also might find rest?

Ah, but no! Those words will not pass my lips!
Men do not build strong houses in woman's heart--
everything in my past tells me that at least is truth.
So these words will remain unspoken though
wings still beat with rapid force and storms still rage away.
Those words will not escape. I will not let them escape! I swear it! And yet...

"I love you?"

"I love you..."

"I love you."

For Better, For Worse

October 28, 2010

May I be the one who shakes you from your nightmares
When in the depth of darkness
You toss fretfully from side to side?
And in the same right,
May I be the one with whom you share pleasant dreams
when we wake with the sunrise,
Both rubbing sleep from our weary eyes?

Allow me the honor of being near enough
that my heart aches as much as
your own when you are filled with grief.
And then other times,
Let me be close enough in every happiness
to make my own spirit swell--
even in the quiet joys you cannot speak.

I will gladly share the weight of your burdens
and support you in your strength
whenever you feel it is weak.
And when it is not,
I pray you let me rely on that very strength
to help me stand in the times
of trial that knock me off my feet.

I ask to be these things for you, and you for me
Because I know that I am yours and you are mine
To have and to hold from this day forward.
For better, for worse;
For richer, for poorer;
In sickness and in health;
To love and to cherish...

'Til death do us part.

Outside of Time

November 9, 2010

You will not apologize for fierceness,
Nor I for quickness.
You and I know what others don't!
Our God dwells outside of time--
And if that is where He calls us
Then you will go, and take me along.

We will cling to what He alone has promised.
Calendars, clocks, watches--
Which of these dictates His will?
Our God dwells outside of time!
Others see the two of us as new
But isn't it true that we know the truth,

That we are ancient?
He had you walk with me
And I alongside you
In every time of trial,
of happiness, of distress...
No, we might not have known it then
But how deeply can we feel it now!

To others we are the ticking of a second hand.
But to Him, we remain eternal.
Let you and I live where He lives;
Our God dwells outside of time
And that is where he has called us.
So let us go, fiercely, and without apology.

We will live outside of time as well.

That Day of Us

November 14, 2010

I don't remember at this moment
if on that particular day of us
we saw both the sun's rise and decline,
but i do recall... in afternoon's shadow
You shared snapshots of your mind with mine.
We leaned on one another, awestruck
And the one thing to do but pray was kiss.
Together we had enjoyed neither yet,
but there... surrounded by your past--and by Him--
we closed our eyes, praised, and our lips met.

Later, in a haven of a house
still reeling from reverence and joy the same,
I felt songs played as if for me and you
and thought... has love won your heart as it has mine?
I drew nearer, knowing well the truth.
We left to nestle in the river's side
and against each other. You confirmed then,
as our noses touched, the answer i knew.
You shared it... First only with your solemn eyes,
But the art of your tongue followed soon.

Were those good words whispered or shouted?
Time has passed; I don't even remember
if within that moment you looked my way,
but I do recall... the fondness in your voice...
and that i fell-- desperately, hopelessly, irrevocably-- in love that day.


November 22, 2010

In your eyes lives a sweet, echoing sadness
that calls me to bury myself within you.
When they are upon me, as even in this moment,
the one thing I long for is to find my way inside
and curl up as near to your heart as I can manage.

But what walls are these that turn me away?
You have made barriers too high for me to climb.
You have made yourself a fortress within which
I am scarcely allowed and even more scarcely wanted.
Your fear of who I am not is acute and my most arduous burden.

But hear: I will not buckle beneath the weight of your doubt.
I did not emerge from that dark and wild place
only to find you and then forsake you for wilderness once more.
Even the defenses you have so carefully constructed
cannot be higher than the reach, or stronger than the force, of love.

Not on desire, but on this promise I will stand.
I will encircle you daily and make my path around you
with the hope--no, the faith-- that when the time has come
you will hear my song and your walls will beautifully collapse.
And though for some brief time I may simply wait in awe,

Eventually I will come into you, and your heart will also be my own.

Rewind, Reevaluate, Repeat

December 12, 2010

You do not know what you do know.
Your mind coils upon itself,
a handful of twine wound too tightly,
as you rewind, reevaluate, repeat.
Like that, you can't be sure of anything.
However, there is something to be said
for a flat plane of thought;
one you can walk on with confidence;
one in which the mind lay recumbent;
one that so often holds hands with peace.

You do not know what you do know--
but you will--
And that is enough for me.


December 13, 2010

When I am old,
You will be older still.
But I will love your weathered hands
and your wrinkled face as I love
them full of foolish youth now.
I will love you with the same passion
that I hold today--that fervor
in which my heart cries for you;
aches for your peace--
only deeper and more beautiful.
I will love you the way my soul
can only love one other soul--
the one that God has formed
with my name in His mind.

I will love you
through battle,
through sadness,
through uncertainty because...
Though age may touch your face and hands
Your eyes will always be the same as mine.

Mist Like Milk

December 14, 2010

Morning mist like milk surrounds us.
We drink it; bathe in it
until the sun dries our bones.
Even after it has evaporated into midday
our clothes cling to us
as we cling to one another,
saturated with the memory of dawn.

In some approaching hour
twilight will drip on us like honey,
thick, sweet, and golden.
By dark it will have trickled to our feet
and we will stand in puddles of nectar,
soaked through and waiting;
Anticipating midnight's silent arrival.

And at that moment I will hold to you,
recall daybreak, and say assured,
"I loved you well in morning mist...
but now I love you better."

Stay, My Sleeper

February 8, 2011

When my eyes open
I can see the breadth of your back--
You who are golden shouldered
and crowned with waves of midnight.
My gaze rises and falls with
every sleeping breath that moves you;
It brushes against the solid line of your arm
And nestles into the curve of your neck.

Oh, that the same arm might hold to me now
as my eyes hold fast to your slumb'ring form!
And that the same neck might turn to me
as my heart has turned to you so often before!
All my being longs for movement,
but you lie still.
My lungs cry silently for you to rise,
but I beg you, Love--
my love, do not.

Instead stay, my sleeper, and I will attend.
That I may see the beauty in your quiet strength
And know it for better when you wake,
Stay, my true love, stay.


March 1, 2011

You are dark.
And when I say, "dark" I mean
dark, as molasses and burnt caramel are dark;
dark, as licorice strings and horehound are dark;
dark, as black coffee and newsprint are dark.
Yes, you are dark--
and yet, by" dark" I mean
I can see that you are just as
muddy sweet and deeply sugared;
just as fennel-fixed and mouth-watering;
just as fully rich and palpably bold as these.
You are dark,
but when I say, "dark" I mean
dark, in the most appetizing, most intriguing way, dark.

Yes, you are dark,
But I love you the more for it.

What the Light Knows

March 12, 2011

Light sweeps across your eyelids,
soft, like water that caresses the shore.
Lingering like the last note of a lullaby,
it settles into you, gentle and sweet.
And you, placid and drowsy, feel nothing,
But it feels you.

And I, alert and aware--
I want to know what the light knows:
the pleasure of sinking into the depths of you
and claiming you as mine until you move
while dancing, luminous, delicate,
over lidded eyes.

But I am not so fluid;
I am not so delightfully undetectable
as light so often seems to be. And so,
you will have to pull back the shades for me;
let your shut eyes be opened to me;
your heart offered,

So I will know what the light knows,
and maybe you will love as light loves.

Early Hours

April 11, 2013

in early hours with me
for I love you more than the colors
of the morning when it comes
with soft and spindling fingers
reaching for our very own.
But let our hands be intertwined
as we are intertwined
so daylight cannot take them;
cannot take us




Poetry largely based on human emotion, thought and interaction. 



Wednesday Evening

November 23, 2010

Wednesday evening
and we make our entrance.
you are light like the breeze
on which spring arrives,
while I stay dark as the clouds
that you carry along.

Wednesday evening
and everyone knows but me
that I've played the fool's role
in all of this. You are not light,
but some unspoken blackness
that envelops and colors me.

Wednesday evening
and your jealous arm is around me,
not light, but heavy as lead.
You protect me from acting for myself;
You graciously offer shelter from anyone
who might try to love me one day.

Wednesday evening
and we make our exit.
Your light fades to storms now as well
and everyone but I knows
what is about to happen--again.
I am a child, choosing ignorance...

Thursday morning,
and I am awake with the sun.
You are beside me sleeping,
light sprinkled across your innocent face
as the dew is across the fresh cut lawn.
You are sound and silent.

Thursday morning,
and a child again, I play doctor.
Standing naked before the glass,
covering each new wound
with bandages and excuses,
I know light will soon hit your eyes
And you will awake;
And you will see clearly;
And you will apologize;
And you will love me...

At least for now.
At least until the next
Wednesday evening

Robots and Little Sisters

December 12, 2010

I remember growing up, I didn't see the difference between you and any other brother. I didn't think much of the fact that sometimes only I understood when you spoke. I didn't think anything about using my hands to talk to you, because everybody talks with their hands, right? Then suddenly it was different. One day mom sent you off carrying a backpack and a lunchbox, and eight hours later you came home carrying nothing but burdens. I didn't understand the look on your face that day, but I get your feelings now. I'll never know theirs.

I followed you the next year. In my eyes you were as everyone else. Their sight was clouded because you didn't always know to turn around when they said your name and your voice didn't ring as clear as theirs. That was enough reason for them to make your life miserable. I think it worked. They heard that you couldn't make yourself sound the same as they did, and you couldn't form words quite as well to fight against theirs, so they called you stupid. They saw that you had a beautiful contraption to act as your ears and let you hear all the awful things they said about you, so they called you Robot.

I remember when by the monkey bars one day some kid called you that. Robot. I pushed him down like I want to push down any oppression that's ever come against you. Back then I couldn't forgive such a cruel heart when it was attacking one so dear to mine. You put your hand on me and told me it was okay, but... I've always felt like I was older. I've always felt like I needed to take care of you and offer you protection, even though I know you don't want to accept it from your younger half. Somehow I doubt that will ever change, because...

Sometimes still when someone hears you speak and dares to look at you the wrong way, the anger from the days of tactless children wells up within me again and I find myself wanting to push them as far away from you as I can; protect you. In my head, they're treating you like a robot, not like my living, breathing brother. Ha. Somehow I think I emerged from your youth more scarred than you did. In the end though, experiencing injustice made me always check my own. Seeing cruelty made me forever more aware of my own tendencies to be unkind.

I know two things now through them: how much damage can be caused and how much I never want to cause it. So when it all boils down to it, I guess their hate taught me to truly love... And that is something I cannot regret--

No matter how many robots and little sisters got hurt along the way.


December 14, 2010

you drown paper birds
one by one in the river.
your pale hands sacrifice them
delicately to her foaming mouth.
Twisted though it may be,
you smile because they flutter
just before they melt away;
and in the depth of muddy water,
it almost seems as though
they have real beating wings
and real beating hearts.
You almost wish they did.
You know it makes you sick,
but you still wish it
so that you could torment like
you have been tormented
and kill the way that
you have been killed--
Like complete power torments incapacity;
like treachery kills innocence.

But you've chosen only paper,
because in the end,
you are too terrified
to hurt anything that
could ever hurt you back.

As you let her lick them away
with her lapping tongues,
your mind realizes
they are numb to agony
and suddenly you wish
that you could be paper too.

Empty Lots, Growing Hearts

October 11, 2011

She hides herself daily
in the backyard she invented--
A bittersweet refuge,
A haven from a home,
Complete with concrete trees
and grass (some call them weeds)
bursting through the pavement.
Skirts rippling around her ankles,
she whirls ‘round the asphalt garden.
How frantically she throws her seeds,
planting dreams where they will never grow,
dictating what is to come
with the fearsome hope that
so often makes a child a force to behold.
Daily she stamps her foot and laughs,
“Tomorrow I will be back for you,
pretty flowers, pretty hopes and dreams.”
Insistent that one of these tomorrows,
not too long from tomorrow,
She will come back to find them flourishing.
That day, they will be scooped into a basket
And carried back to the yellowed walls
where her dreams were flattened long ago,
uprooted as they hit the dry earth of home--
And she will laugh her victory.
Laugh at the walls, the ceiling, the floor.
She will. This she knows.
She knows.
She knows.

But this girl every day returns
to the concrete trees;
to the chunks of rubble;
to the cemented yard…
but never—
never to any blooming dreams
or fresh little saplings of hope.
And then every day she leaves.
a little more disappointed;
a little more defeated,
And a little more a woman.




Poetry that includes strong imagery of the world around us.



Like the Starling

October 10, 2010

Once--like the starling--
I could not get out.
I threw myself against my cage;
I thrashed my wings 'til they snapped;
Yet succeeded in nothing
But drawing my own disappointed blood.

Once--like the starling--
I tasted slavery, bitter as it was.
I paced to and fro, trudging
As though held by invisible chains,
As opposed to just by bars alone.
I drew my own disappointed thought.

Once--like the starling--
I was determined and crazed.
I would not rest 'til I could get out.
But it wasn't 'til the day I surrendered;
Admitted my attempts worthless;
Admitted I had drawn my own defeat...

That I realized cage and bars set aside,
The door had been open my entire life.

HoneyDew and Lemon Peel

December 10, 2010

The horizon ripples in the heat,
Uneven; crooked like the spine
Of the old, withered man
We have silently and suddenly become.
Summer should smell crisp
--Like honeydew and lemon peel--
But stagnant air surrounds us here,
Its heaviness crushing on our backs.

I long to live new like a sapling,
Branches bending tenderly,
More likely to spring back than snap.
But we are gnarled, brittle, rooted here...
Still, shouldn't summer be crisp--
Like green apples and just plucked pears?
There is somewhere fresh to be found.
I hope, and my spine begins to straighten.

All I now need to know is this:
When I can run, will you run with me?

Shasta Daisy; Wild Lady

April 21, 2010

A wildflower,
I grow persistently towards the Sun,
undefeated, untamed, and unashamed.
Petals plucked and leaves broken,
I stand freely as ever amongst
roses, lilies, and perfectly planted poppies.
I do not bend to any force, because
beautiful strength is borne of wilderness,
and I know it.
I will not be moved by any force, because
resilience is borne of holding your ground,
and I practice it.

I am not:
Proper or
But what I am is better:
blazing star;
butterfly weed;
shasta daisy;
wild lady.

What I am is a wildflower, free in beauty,
that found my way into the garden;
a wildflower, constantly being pruned and cut,
but continually sprouting through earth again...
Because wild roots run too deep to conquer.

Neither Lilac, nor Rose, nor Daylight

March 20, 2011

Dusty lilac and clinging rose
drip from the heavens,
falling slowly,
as night does so often.
Even when they fade from the sky,
day holds desperately
to dusk, awake
'til dark sings its lullaby
and drowns it, sweetly, into sleep.
The clouds become
mottled like the dappled
muzzle of a new grey pony.
They float, untouched, but
dimming softly
as night comes ever close.
In an instant, neither lilac,
nor rose, nor daylight,
nor lullaby,
nor freckled cloud remains;
No--the eventide, which swallowed
the rest of the sky,
prevails tonight
and reigns like finality.

But in the dark, if you dare look,
can be found beauty--
the beauty in
the coming sunrise.

The Second Fall

September 7, 2011

Flickering gently in the breeze--
as they once did in the sky--
they wave pointed, translucent fingers,
as if bidding farewell to former life.
Finally they glimpse past glories:
the unhinging from a branch and
shooting briefly in autumn gusts,
and falling, twisting, glimmering--
if only for a moment--
to earth's sweet and grassy floor.

It's a shorter fall than they remember.

The first time there was speed,
and passion,
and fire--
the burning of the atmosphere.

But this is gentle;
this is more a float than a fall.
And this time they don't singe the earth
as they did mightily before--
No. They simply sit idle
as the earth swallows them,
turning brown and crisp
in the quickly cooling air.

Winter comes and they crumble,
Once glittering jewels in night's soft sky.
They fade away with whispered hopes
to be reborn as young stars once more,
But they will be leaves again to-morrow.

The Dragon King

September 11, 2011

My eyes rubbed against the pavement,
just touching the shadow of a dragonfly
floating against the first fall breeze,
struggling gently, and with trembling wings.
He passed over me in a moment
and I never thought of looking up--
I won't suppose that he looked down.
I never saw him, but somehow still
I picture his bright body flying:
A thin cerulean shell with wings like vellum,
his delicate little dragon's tail striped with tar,
eyes reflecting, but not quite seeing
the quickly shifting world around him.
And though I never knew him,
I can imagine how since spring he's escaped,
from nasty boys who tear off wings;
from well meaning boys who would starve him in jars;
from girls who scream and squish little dragons;
And mostly from the waiting mouths of
hungry songbirds, speckled fish, and calling frogs.
He has sailed victorious through summer air,
The light shining through wings, his tiny veils,
And with pride he has boasted his winnings.

But today I pulled my scarf closer 'round my throat
And fastened tight the buttons of my overcoat
and as I briefly glimpsed his shadowed flight,
my heart knew the fate of the dragon-king:
he will meet the end which winter brings.

Little Bird

December 3, 2011

Tell me, little bird;
who carved out your hollow bones?
Were the hands delicate
and swift as the wind you ride upon?
Or tell me, did it hurt
to trade your weight for vacant wings?
Was it a fair and fast exchange--
losing the earth beneath your feet?
And tell me was it worth
the fixed life you could have known
to see how far away you’ve flown?

Oh who carved out your hollow bones?

Coming Home

May 9, 2013

The sky is layered with dusky purple over the soft coral that reminds me only of the ocean. In the morning twilight, the sand is grey beneath our feet and we tread through it near the water’s edge, leaving just fleeting evidence of our presence. The impressions of bare soles and naked toes will soon be washed away and it will be as though we never came. But we will come tomorrow and leave them once again.

Shells and pebbles lay littered on the shore like tiny stars that fell when dawn came. The fingers of the ocean creep up, reclaiming some, leaving some, and casting others out. Ahead, pools are left in the sand like limbs severed from the greater body. They are full of life and also temporary; in a few hours they will vanish like our footprints.

We reach East Beach just as the sun breaks the horizon. Its broken reflection glimmers on the water and tosses in the waves. We sit in the sand that is slowly turning golden, letting it cling to bare legs like this place clings to our hearts. As we watch, the sun climbs higher; birds come out of hiding; trees stretch towards the sun with gnarled arms and so do we.

This is our place and our time–this island, this beach at sunrise. This is what we left behind, but could never leave for long. And even though our lives are elsewhere, right now, right here… This is coming home.




Poetry including God and spirituality.



His Daughter

November 12, 2010

I am His daughter.

My hands may be small,
but my arms remain strong.
When darkness covers the earth,
broken only by the faintest moonlight,
my lamp does not go out;
even such fragile hands do not close.

I shine and remain open--
open to those I love dearly,
open to those I've only just met,
open to anyone who needs or wants.
Always I say, "Come to me and I will love you
with the love I have received."

I cover myself in amaranthine shades
of dignity and strength alike.
I share joy through quiet laughter
and strive always to speak wisely--
better that my tongue be silent
than teach a lesson other than kindness.

And I know I am precious;
more so than any blushing ruby,
than any burning sapphire,
than any bright and brilliant diamond,
I am precious;
more precious than jewels.

World and enemy may whisper in my ear,
humming the most pernicious lies,
but I will stand.
I will stand with strong arms and persistent spirit.
Still I will say, "I am precious.
I am precious, for I am His daughter."

Love Never Fails

December 2, 2010

In the center of my deepest storm
I found my way to Your heart
And sought refuge there.
Then quietly You told me, "Be still,"
"Stay, and I will cover you."

You did not fail me then.

Since the day I realized Your truth,
I buried myself deep within You
When rains and winds shook me.
You held to me with faithful hands
and covered me with Your love.

You did not fail me then;
You have not failed me since.

Now in the depth of yet another trial,
I am reminded that without Your strength,
My own is just weakness in disguise.
I could never do this alone,
So I wait within You, knowing nothing but this:

You did not fail me then;
You have not failed me since;
You will not fail me now.

The Least of These

December 6, 2010

I found Christ today,
His hair tangled like ocean weeds
and fingernails with grit beneath,
but eyes glowing beautifully--
sometimes brown,
sometimes blue,
sometimes green.

He smelled like city,
concrete dust clinging to His clothes
and dirt on the bare feet below
but I knew that He was clean--
like fresh rain,
like a child's mind,
like new fallen snow.

And words passed His lips,
which smiled to reveal yellowed teeth,
and closed to hide the same from me,
but what He spoke was pure--
all from joy,
all from love,
all from peace.

I found Christ today.
I knew Him through His piercing eyes;
In that dilapidated body I saw Him rise,
but before He left me--
to go to the street,
to go wandering,
to go to His life...

He said His eyes
Saw Christ in Mine.

The Truth Behind Woman

June 23, 2011

God made komodo dragons.

And lizards.
He made baboons and hairless dogs and vultures.
He made naked mole rats and warthogs.
He even made roaches and earthworms and fruit flies.
God made the wild animals of the earth of every kind,
And the cattle of every kind,
And everything that creeps upon the ground of every kind.

And He called them good.

If God—this great, big, powerful, beyond awesome God—

Who sees even an anglerfish and calls it good,
Who sees even a mosquito and calls it good,
Who sees even blubbery old walruses and calls them good…
If He also sees me—woman—

Why would I think He doesn’t call me good too?

After all, when did God ever look at a gorilla and say,
“You’re too hairy?”
When did He ever look at a giraffe and say,
“Your neck is too long?”
When did He ever look at an elephant and say,
“Your nose is too big?”

For that matter, when did God ever look at me—woman—and say,
“You’re… too fat.
too thin.
too tall.
too short.
too pear-shaped.
too top-heavy.
too brunette.
too blonde.
too freckled.
too pale.
too tan.
And just generally too ugly in the first place?”

…When did He say that?
Or I guess the better question is:
When—and why—did I start believing it?

Only one time did God say that something in His creation was not good…
And that one thing was that man should be alone;
That one thing was that I—woman—didn’t exist yet.

The truth behind me—woman—is that before I came along,
Creation was incomplete. Something was missing—not good.

The truth is this:

that God—this great, big, powerful, beyond awesome God—

made fearsome tigers,
And stately lions,
And majestic eagles,
And graceful deer,
And He saw that they were good…

But not quite perfect and beautiful enough
So He made me—woman,

and finally… everything was good.

How Thick He Is!

October 10, 2011

He grows up around you,
surrounding your heart with
tendrils and tangles;
he makes in you a thicket
of the sweetest wild rose.

And how thick he is!
So thick in fact that you,
there inside his shadow,
behind the clusters and the vines,
cannot find The Light for long.
You see glimpses--
here and there--
flashing and fleeting.
But you are not afraid,
because the darkness
hides his thorns as well.

When he has overcome you
and carried you away
he will romance you in his style;
loving you into oblivion,
introducing you to his
beautiful poisons--
That you may
dance and sing with him
and drink 'til you stumble
and be friends with his friends
and help to count his money
and learn to love it
as he always has so well.
He will teach you how
to demand your share,
to follow your heart,
to avoid getting hurt,
to hurt others if you must
to hold a grudge
to love hatred and hate wisdom.

And you will nestle into him,
comfortable and contented
in the warmth of darkness.
Oh, and how thick he will be!
So thick that you will not
catch even glimpses of The Light;
so thick that you will
forget even to look for Its gleam;
so thick that you may not
remember there being Light at all.

But The Light will remember you;
shining though you do not see;
shining so that if you should recall
you can continue growing as you began.

Yes, the world is your lover,
But the Bridegroom is waiting.

We See His Spirit in the Trees

October 30, 2011

We see His spirit in the trees:
an everlasting effervescence
bubbling off the evergreen
and spilling into us
because we lie open,
willing patients spread out
on a twice-paved tarmac table.
The light glints through the branches,
Nothing less than cherubim and seraphim
flown down to us while we wait for Him
to seep into us like dew
seeps into the hardened earth
when morning dies,
quenching its thirst and giving rise
to all that is good and growing.
We see His spirit in the trees--
in the shaking roots and trembling leaves,
we see Him
and He is willing to drip down
into our bodies, his blood mixing
into you and into me,
quenching our thirst and
fulfilling our needs—
We see His spirit in the trees.