Her Brush With Death

frosty foliage

 

The frost that ruptures arteries

and makes her foliage weep

is also master of the brush

that earns true glory’s keep,

for as he paints the crimson tide

with blood as palette’s edge,

his lines mark beauty’s truest form,

and trace salvation’s ledge.

 

Outside the Lines

purple smokebush autumn

 

O bloodied branch, femoral

artery feeding lusty

lies, if self is emptied out

(radical transfusion), might

your stump become a tree of

Life for me? Might skin, peeling,

bare veins which would bleed, not for

egocentric comforts or

satisfaction in single

dose, but multiplied networks,

capillaries of comfort

and compassion? Let leeches

drain decomposition, let

radical revolution

leak Love radically spilled,

in living outside the lines.

Hearts of Stone

rock.jpg

Hearts of stone cannot bleed;

aortas and ventricles

clog and contort,

but will not spill their precious cargo.

 Hearts of stone

may be islands,

coastlines of security for the soul interred –

but do not good bedfellows make.

Hearts of stone

do not conform to spooned softness

or adapt to reaching arms;

they will not break for others

or drive change in the leaking.

Better to bleed,

spill,

beat fast with the pain,

than to remain

a stone.

The Cut

woodpeckerhole

The sap you’ll bleed will tell the tale;

we all know the drill.

The  shock of the first prying probe,

the initial cut,

slices through more than skin.

But it’s the continual pounding,

the interminable perforation,

the ongoing flurry of jaw-jolting blows

that will have you screaming Uncle.

Just when you feel that the hammer has hit your heart

and defeat is inevitable,

the bird finds its worm,

and the real pest is revealed.

The blood you’ll cry

will cauterise the hole;

only the scab will

testify to your

cut

when you find the sky

with outstretched arms…