How can a conscience clear itself when…
it only can see itself through the tortured eyes of “another”
whom it has vainly created to infuse with self-contempt?

 

Blindness seeks its justice by coloring images of its vacancy
on deep dark backgrounds that shine with a tepid sickness,
from billboards of blankness set above frantic crossings
I wimper from a corner of conscience that has wielded a sickle
blunted by furious madness of self-loathing.…

Eye look around and see it everywhere.
Such sadness, much hate,  such indifference, much grief,
Such violent discounting of precious Lifeflow,
Much ignorant blind-heartedness,  such scared-ness enraged.
Innocence and Wisdom trafficked in purpose
The pornography of conscience in slavery and sex.…

 

I have wondered often                                                            Clothing hangs not

Now where you walk,                                                            On your new body

For I know you do,                                                                Colors need no

Without pain,                                                                          Fine stitchery

Now in Joy,                                                                             To accent the

Streaming,                                                                              Brandishing

Smiling                                                                                    Lamp you

Forever                                                                                   Now

In bliss                                                                                    Are

 

You tell me don’t worry                                                         I see you frolic, mindful of

You get by finely now                                                          No stares from the world

Not on your own                                                                    Taking your strides

But in your home                                                                   In deliberate moves

By so many –                                                                           That touch only

Occupied…                                                                               Now slightly but

Others                                                                                        with oh such

With                                                                                          Intentional

You!                                                                                          …

Sitting inside on the edge of nowhere;
In a space not yet created, but occupied still.
There is a moan high on the wind above,
That speaks a tongue I do not know.

So I stand and wait for the Star to arrive.…

Just as I looked to the sky coming off the escalator up from the Metro at Arlington Cemetery, I saw it.   It was the “hole in heaven” that I saw the evening before Mom left.  But here, now, in Washington DC’s blueness, the hole was back, but this time with a sliver from a rainbow shining forth within. …