a burial service for the King

Here lies the silent music
of the mourners, piling like rice

waiting for a resurrection
in a wasteland

here like the silent music
of the mourners, with flowers

holding petals, shredded out
yellow, red, pink and gradation of hope

for the King lies in a shroud
made with musk and linen

wrapped, Lord of the universe
maker, human, seeker of peace

here lies the silent music
of the mourners, us among them,

in black and dark blue
roughened and bruised

mourning the tapping
of a morning on the windows of resurrection.

Sharing stories

Like word of mouth
is the story, formed with superstition
leaves way for blabbermouths
to keep on rambling

the light of Easter

Believe it or not,
this is how the light disperses
exploding out of death
to rise, on Easter

A kind of love

This is what you need
as the month opens and closes
a kind of love that storms
with or without the aid of crystals, your head.

Rethinking heritage

A vision of my grandmother, with glasses on
strands of yarn in her fingers making jackets
to restrain warmth in my chest
this is heritage,
the way love is weaved for us to hold in our hands.

A busy person

Give the best job, to the busiest person
you wrote to me without thinking of logic
how can the status of being under pressure give way
to the tide to flow under feet?

This is our daily
take out the last bit of rye to make bread
keep the time like the seconds
maybe there will be space for us to achieve,
those dreams we have kept on the shelves for years.

Jealousy, revisited

Your quivering voice
lights up the nightly conversation
about another woman in his hairy arms.