The Haunting

ghostly iciclesSomething wicked this way comes,

Marching in to Arctic drums;

Promised gift of spring succumbs

To ghosts of winter past.

Ice Queen reigns supreme for now,

Frigid frost on frigid brow;

Soon, she’ll have to take a bow,

For phantoms cannot last.

 

Thick Skin

Not newborn skinpuddle ice, this.

Calloused, thick,

Barrier excludes blood

From heart of stone

Lest it beat and fulfill its function.

Stubborn film rejects sunshine,

Warmth,

Content to stagnate frozen

In primordial ooze

Lest the mess that lurks beneath

Be exposed, raw in its stench.

Your skin has kept emotions contained,

Given you a measure of control

Over the uncontrollable.

See here, the crown of thorns

Which pierces hearts of ice.

Take hold of the spear

Which alone penetrates

Thick skin.

Be melted.

Drip with awe.

And watch your dirty little secrets

Dry up and turn to dust

Before the Light of the World.

Adding Yeast

 

 

fresh bread

Stir me.

Add the flour of infirmity,

Anoint me with the oil of sorrow.

Beat me.

Pummel me with your fists,

Pound out your frustrations on my flesh.

 

Bake me.

Turn up the heat of your accusations,

Burn me with your passions, the self that fires your actions.

Kill me.

I will rise,

Tower above you,

Tear my flesh to feed a starving world.

You will eat,

And rise

To live again.

 

 

The Sower

babylettuce.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These blades,

Guillotine to slice flesh

From bone, shred all semblance of comfort.

This rack,

Gears ground like teeth on edge,

Stretch faith beyond breaking.

 

Suffering gouges, disembowels,

Carves furrows upon her aching heart,

Divides the sheep and the goats

Into messy eviscerated piles.

 

The Sower scatters – dignified, purposeful.

Seeds cling with new tenacity

To scars, places where faith

That bleeds replaces stone.

They fall into gaping wounds,

Freshly ploughed soil

Where germination reigns.

 

Transfusion

frozenpuddle.jpg

 

He invades her thoughts

Like formaldehyde,

Preserving pain

(Locking it in amber),

The proverbial fly.

He swirls through her veins,

Throbs at her temples

Thick like curdled milk.

Only the Surgeon

Can cut deep enough

To bleed out this cancer,

Transfuse Life

from heaven’s veins

to her impoverished frame.

Blades flash.

Blood flows,

Staining wood and stone.

Every drop

Finds its way

Intravenously

To her heart.