not a father

bitterness stood on the mountain

            opened its hand

                        let the rock

roll down

it struck another

which struck another –

in the end – complete devastation

the girl

            alone

is under that rubble somewhere

God is dead

(it could be said)

by the girl

            alone

who would want a father?

            they cheat

            mistreat

            leave

and righteous anger

ignites

burns bright

            leaves a block

            of ice

but he has many names besides Father

            there is one

            meant just for her

a name she can trust

we must

help her find him

she is done with fathers

the rumbling rolling rocks

bounced battered bruised

            each cut, scrape, purple mark

            the result of what a father is like

            to her

what she needs

            mud in her eye

            the hem of a robe

            the stirring of waters

            a handout of fish and bread

            a “peace be still”

            a simple word

            a calling forth

            a miracle

perhaps of the bulldozer kind

to move the stones that cascaded and tumbled

down the mountain of her heart

since you are in the stone moving business

nickel wound, earth bound

nickel wound

stretched across the wood

bound and pulled

as she was

sharp, flat

whole step, half step

she sought to dance

on light feet

but gravity hates flight.

now so does she.

“get your head out

of the clouds.”

and she did.

flightless birds are sad birds

jealous birds

and a guitar strums a

beautiful tune on the

stretched strings,

while those in the package

have no song.

Orbit

Strong-willed walls built high

He sees - he hears 

     but the choice is made.

Like the old man who swears

     the Earth is the center

     while Michelangelo shows 

     proof against

But the planets make their orbits

     like salvation around a son.

A son that burns bright, and I pray that light

     will penetrate a cloudy soul

     to change the choice.

- for S.T. 

Mongolian Orphans

The following was written in Ulaan-Bataar, Mongolia after visiting a government-run orphanage.


They sit together, alone
clinging to strangers
     hoping... ever hoping
to find the elusive -
that which is patient and kind
     and keeps no record of wrongs.
wilted flowers all
     groping for life
    for beauty.
I saw it with eyes opened
     that had been closed.