First Prayer

For April, Poetry Month, I’m following prompts offered by Jena Schwartz. Its lovely to get up, read her offering, then just write what falls off the pen. This is my response for today:

First Prayer

Some mornings I open my eyes

and still find myself brooding,*

 This music, the brooding,

The wind and the metal bells…

the first prayer:

For the unclenching of the common fist,

The scoured, the scalded heart,

The rancorous cry,

For the face unmasked,

Treacherous words allowed to fall

Quiet into the uncurled hand

Spilled onto the still earth,

All the knotted ropes undone,

Until we turn and turn,

Breath and rain

over the parched spring land,

all the cages opened

wherever there are cages,

time freed from clocks,

days from dates,

and something in the small,

wild, fierce and tender human heart

walks free            or flies.



* photo and quote from Jena Schwartz



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“Even knowing what you love is no salvation”…

Still dark

and the one bird

already singing.


I wake. It’s Monday.


weighs the heft of it


in one hand,

the tide of sleep

washing out.


The waning Paschal moon

casts shadows across

the sunroom floor
You are only trying to say

what you see in the world. Spring.

Winter. Even knowing what you love

is no salvation…”*


Even so.

I light the candles,

I begin with poems…




*from Night Music, Jan Zwicky, Forge

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Snow Birds:2 haiku and a recycled card

snow bird haiku


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Comment – a typewriter poem


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Winter Trees- a typewriter poem


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Advent – a typewriter poem


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Advent…a typewriter poem


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Tawdry Elements…a typewriter poem

wren and poem

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Horse Came Then…a morning poem

As once the winged energy of delight
carried you over childhood’s dark abysses…



Horse came then

three times, two nights

and a morning


First, running in a shadowed field

under the crescent moon

where my heart flew


Again, on bright painted wings

in a small mythic gift

from the hand of a friend

And then, tucked inside

the words of an unknown poet

with guidance for the soul.

Make of this what you will,

She whispered,

but listen, find

what the moon knows,

see what shape

stomps its restless

feet in the closure

of your heart

“and if it be a horse,

open the gate

and let it run”*





*from The Soul, by Kim Moore


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October Sunday – a typewriter poem

houses poem

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