Shaping them
Into word-ships—
That’s my
Form of worship:
Riding the wild
River of this world.
*
The Bible says
Adam brought
Trouble
Into the world
With his small
Pink slab of muscle.
But if God didn’t
Want it to happen,
Why did He
Give him a tongue?
*
“God so loved the word
He gave His only
Begotten world
That it might be
Redeemed.”
I think the preacher
Used to say that
In my church
When I was a kid.
Then again, I could
Have gotten it wrong—
Back then
I wasn’t really listening.
*
“And the word
Was made
Fresh”—
Each one
Baked daily.
It’s the bread
By which I live.
*
Talk about miracles!
How I take empty air
Deep in my lungs,
Warming it there,
Extracting from it
What my blood needs,
Then breathing it back
Out as sound
I’ve added meaning to.
*
Outside our bodies, things
Wait to be named,
To be saved.
And don’t they deserve it?
So much hidden inside
Each one,
Such a longing
To become the beloved.
Meanwhile, the sounds
Crowd our mouths,
Press up against
Our lips
Which
Are such
A narrow exit
For a joy so desperate.
*
Vowels that rise
From our open throats . . .
Long “a” lounging, naked
In the leafy shade;
Then the low,
Lubricious moan of “o.”
The high “e” of grief.
And “u”—who
Could ever forget you?
“I” could never.
“Y” would I even try?
*
The word “mockingbird”—
It’s poised in my mouth
Same as the bird itself
Pauses on the dogwood branch.
When the bird flies away,
The word remains.
Look, now it’s right here—
Singing on the page.
*
The word is exempt from
The world’s flaws—
“Leaf” is complete,
Unscarred by insect
Or wind-tossed twig,
Yet it is an essence
That implicates the world
As a wound implies a body.
*
When I was young
I was always eager
To learn new words.
How many there were!
Now, I’m old and still
Learn new ones,
But forget more and more
Of those I once knew.
When I was young
I couldn’t have imagined
The time would come
When I’d need so few.
*
I always supposed
It was words
I was after—
Those
Shining fish
The poem’s net gets.
But who knows?
Maybe it was
The sea
Itself,
I was trying
To haul on deck.