Jesus Calling

The night before
She stands inside
The bulging, burgeoning 
Closet.

What will I be tomorrow?
Pink and pearls?
Grey and gold?
 
Will she dress
To impress
          or
To cover?

There is always
               so
Much
To cover.

Morning rises.
Shower not bath
Never bath
To sit so
         still
       so
         long
In water
       so
         hot
With time, 
           Well,
No. Oh, no. Just
                 No.

Not when there is
The Mirror
To be faced
The Mirror
Whose price inflates
Whose toll increases 
With every passing year.

To lift the droop
Suspend the sag
To fill the sallow hollows
That darken and deepen
With every lie

To plump the lips
Worn out
Worn thin
By each apology 
               never made
By every promise 
               forgotten

To span the crevasse
The ever-widening crevasse
Between who she 
                Is
And who she
           Claims
To be.


There is no pink
Light enough
There is no ink
Dark enough
To fill the expanse
Of that limitless
                  Void.

Still she tries.
Each morning she
                 tries.

Spackling the wrinkles
With new and heavier
                    Layers 
Of hypocrisy,
Watching it settle 
Into the lines
Like fine French
                arsenic
Feeding flesh to bone.

"You still got it, Sister!"

She winks at the glass that
                           withers
Beneath her gaze.
Then gathering the blackened
                            bits
Of her soul into a green velvet bag, 
She slithers behind the latest
Luxury wheel, turning the key,
Shaking her head,
"Late again".

Knowing 
        He
Waits
Obvious and open
Atop her slick office desk
Flayed and splayed,
                  Calling
Unheeded 
Unheard
       Forsaken.








A Phoenix Blue

How many times we have
                      risen
from the ashes
of some ruined
               dream
of some broken
               promise
of some word
            unspoken
some deed
         undone.

How many.

If I could
          draw
with other than the
words that so often fail me,
If I could
          paint
with other than the
ink that bleeds even here, even
                               now,
I would
       paint
            Her.

I would paint
             The Phoenix
Blue
that is
       Us.

Her wings are
             indigo
lemniscates.

Without beginning
without ending
they flow,
vast and heavy
              yet
light and clear,
from the steady cerulean
flame
that is her body.

Compact and strong
that body is,
diamond hard
             yet
downy soft,
Newborn
Everlasting.

Its supple spine
                extends
to a tail of limitless
measure that
trembles and falls,
quavers and drops
in perfect time with
those phospherant wings
like the quavering vibrato
of a coloratura just before the
                                shattering.

But silent.
So silent.

Not a sound rises
from wing or tail
as she cuts the smoke-filled
air of her latest,
most pain-filled
                Death.

Until
       Until

High aloft she opens her mouth,
that crystal-sharp edge of her
                              luminous
face, that has
withheld
guarded
swallowed
so much
so many
for all these
             endless
lifetimes.

But no more.

No More.

For this time,
from these ashes,
she rises full-voiced
sure and strong and
                   pure.

And the song she sings
is Ours and Ours alone,
a deafening silence 
to all other ears.

To us she calls
as never before,
her throaty cry
breathless, broken,
ragged from the
raging flames, but
certain, strong, and
                    true.

A song
of roads not taken
of paths not chosen
of endings
          Overcome.

A song of Love.
A song of Life.
A song of Hope.

Our Song
        Forever
Thanks to
          You.

Happy New Year

The voice rises across the cold
falling gently along her brow,
lolling cool atop the heart-thump
bomp-de-bomp-de-bomb
of a thumb-thudding bass
She smiles.
Splintered post cold against her
naked thigh, flanneled feet
                           warm 
against the breathing concrete.
Thank you,
She calls
For the fireworks, 
for the glittering, shimmering
firefly 
       works, 
that hang
         suspended
in the deepening dark
to mark 
the cloudless, blackened, frozen
End
of such a Year.
He smiles.
She knows 
He smiles
Though she cannot 
                 see 
Separated 
as they are

By night
only night
so much 
       Night
Still

He smiles.

Its warmth,
his warmth,
drifting 
        frozen 
over time, 
wraps itself
               warm
across her cheek.

And
for a moment
she thinks 
           Go
Go
   Join
Join him.
But 
   No.
It is enough
enough
      Enough
to call
       Thank
You
(oh, Beautiful One)

to smile
         Happy
(oh, Beloved One)

to mean
        It
to mean
       So
much more;

to be glad
          Together
across the night

That the year, 
this year,
          this 
wonderfulhorribleinterminable

Year
    Is 
      Done.
Thank you
Thank You
Thank
     You
Done
    Done
         Done.

 

 

The Unborn

I wrap it in my arms
Cuddling, swaddling
Cherishing the child
I could never quite
carry

At times I relinquish
Watch it shrink and dwindle and
fade
to almost nothing

Then comes fear

Who am I
without it
What am I
beyond it

And so I feed it
again
and again
again
and again
again
and again

Until it grows
Until it swells
Until it covers
past hope

Suffocating the host
In the guise of
Protection

Armor over armor
Steel over steel
Impenetrable
Unyielding
Stultifying

Safe

 

 

The Spot

 

Dead
Blind
A zone without range
Empty
Void

We cross it each morning
Cursing and laughing
We wait
Calmly
Patiently
For life to 
Beat
    again

And it does
           Always
it does

But 
   there are 
            times
Other times

The underworld 
              Arises 
without warning

Signals disappear
Signs are misconstrued
Codes long broken become
Impenetrable

And we are 
          Lost

Until

From the left
A light
A faint
       Blue
Pulse

A dichrotic throb
As though 
         doubling
Might make the difference

And so it does
So 
  something
does

And the impasse
Dissolves
     Fades
         Passes
into memory

Becoming nothing 
                more 
than the shimmering penumbra
of a once
         intractable
Pain


©sdrogers 20 june 2015




 






Revisited

And you
For whom now
I
Do not even exist
Do you also
No longer recall
The flesh of my
Arm
Beneath your finger;
The scent of my
Neck
On your pillow
Each morning
What a shame to let
Go
All that must be let
Go
In order to forget only
Well, only,
           Just
               Me
Jejune we were
And are, perhaps,
As only one can
Be
In middle age,
The middle way,
Now
That all the other,
So many other
Paths
Have crossed
Too close
But I remember
If you do not
That you always
Lit my cigarettes
Fresh
From a match
Not a Bic, and
Never
No, never
From yours
I remember
Laughter
Lying laughter
Legs linked at the knees
Maddened
By the charm
So much charm
All the charm
Of one another
And are you
Now,
One of the unseen five
Hundred?  My own
Tiresias
Blindly watching,
Wordlessly wondering,
Waiting only to see if
You
Are the ancient love
Of which I speak
No
I think not
No
I think no
I have learned
Across the years
Across these years
Across these oh so
So many years,
I have learned
Just how
Forgettable 
           I 
             am
And just how
Dead
The forgotten
Truly are.

©sdrogers 13 june 2015

At the End of the Day

a hackneyed
     trite
        bromidic
phrase
we are become
we are become
we are 
      be
come

but, oh
shame 
     on you
shame on you
shame 
     on you

for making me 
believe
for working so 
hard
at making me
believe

for being
         such 
A Good Liar

your body 
full of 
Old Man Strength
your words 
full of 
Young Man Charm

yes
shame shame shame
on
  you, Papi

you oh so Graven
image

my Death lies too
beyond that line
across that hill
down that road you
ride
to 
  ward 
      me

never so close
never so far
            away

my Death rises
flat head hooded 
Siddhartha's Cobra 
an evanculous embrace
cooing me close with the 
crook of each bend

my Death is
kinder than you

it has promised
Nothing
and shall deliver
All

just as it did
in Dachau
when your fingers 
closed 
so lovingly
so cravenly
around my
         throat

At the End of the Day
At the End of the Day
At the
      End
of the
Day