Tag: spiritual poetry

Star Under Cloth

And sometimes—
when ritual hush fell like snow
and the air thickened with older names,
when gestures turned like keys
in locks I could not see—
I felt each soul as a star kept under cloth,
each life a fire sworn to its orbit;
and I knew the terrible tenderness of it:
not all stars are kind,
yet all must burn true.

So you made a temple of me, O light—
not of marble,
but of measured hours and reined desire,
of mercy laid as mortar,
of truth squared to the tongue,
of love obedient to will.
And because you built, you exposed—
for temples gather dust as surely as cottages.
The brighter the lamp, the clearer the dust.
So I sweep, and let the lamp judge.

Apostle of the Creek

Tell me—what makes a good apostle?

a god’s breath sighs
over the roof of your house
on a stormed-in night.

i heard god is the one
who pricks you with blackberry thorns
when you are out gathering.
the creek behind your grandfather’s house
runs full.
you are barefoot,
armed with a basket.

you reach, bleed,
eat greedily.
you taste blood and blackberry.
the berries stain your mouth.

i’ve heard god speaks quietly
because he does not want
to startle the deer.
his voice is lush, soft,
folded into the sound of the creek
as you fill your basket.

he is in the red beads
at the tips of your fingers.
when you eat, he slips
down your gullet and lies still,
murmuring at the back of your throat
as if to speak through your mouth—
but shy, shy—

i’ve seen god in the arch of your foot
stretching across a rock.
i’ve seen him in your desperate faith
when you leap
from bank to stone.

he watches you
like a fox hunting a rabbit.
a yearning, childless woman.
an oak straining under a vine.
he tastes your blood with you.

tell me—
how do you worship
without a name?

A Candle for Ambiance

They won’t admit it,
but some people watch the dying
like they’re afraid they might learn something.
As if death might notice them noticing
and turn its face.

Curtains breathe apart.
The flick of a lighter,
a kettle’s shriek,
a phone buzzing with quiet verdicts.

“Ambulance again.”
“He’s outside.”
“Still no movement.”

The grief is tidy at this distance.
Contained.
No blood.
No sound.
No scent.
Only flashing lights

and the shoulder of a woman
who doesn’t wipe her eyes.

Down the street, someone stirs onions.
Steam fogs a window.
Someone lights a candle
and pretends it’s for ambiance,
an apology for not knocking.

We’ve forgotten how to enter mourning
without needing an invitation.
We’ve made grief a spectator sport —
a flickering feed,
a casserole dropped at the door.

But still —
still someone watches,
and someone cooks,
and someone texts,
and someone doesn’t know what to say,
so they say nothing,
and let the pot boil instead.

Because when death comes
and you weren’t the one beside it,
you still want the dying to know —
I saw you.
Even if only
through the window.

At Dusk, Everything Looks Blue

First Darkness

In the eastern sky,
the first star is out.
A single bone, white
and sharp, socketed.

At dusk, everything looks blue.

The world bleeds warmth,
the cool colour of a vein
beneath skin.

Blue,
a bruise that remembers pain.
The horizon swallows its fire,
draws itself inside out,

like a map of your skin,
the only territory that matters.

Call west,
where copper ember drowns.
Call south,
where roots grow dense in soil.
North,
where tightening cold locks earth in silence.
East.

Call light back into your eyes
before this star is joined by its legion,
an ossuary of ancient fire,
a cold promise
marker of what is gone.

Do it now.
Gather the last light like a thief.
Strike a match in the cave of your chest.
Let it catch.

For this is first darkness.
It waits, patient as stone,
to see if you will be its pupil,
or its kindling.

The Lamp and Ashes V

I no longer ask for flattery.
I do not ask for ease.
Only remain—
keep your clear gaze
on the patterned floor of my days,
on the breath that rises and falls,
on the narrow hinge where I decide.

Set your eye in the flame,
not to burn, but to reveal.
Draw your circle round my hunger
until wildness learns its key,
until want inclines to ought,
until base metal remembers light.

And when I fall—
for dust obeys its law—
grant me the plain strength to stand and sweep,
to strike the line true;
to lift the bent, shelter the battered,
restore the lost to their own face;
to guard the small with law,
to choose the quiet good over noise,
to set one small flame against the dark.

This is enchantment stripped of spectacle:
not a word flung once into air,
but a life spoken in rooms of habit,
a vow kept among dust and dishes,
a green blade through ash—
The brighter the lamp, the clearer the dust.
So I sweep, and let the lamp judge.