The Blue-Gray Dome
I misplaced myself a little while,
lay on the balcony with a jean quilt
looking at the stars.
The blue-gray sky domed over me,
draped over the mountains and the city.
Dewdrops hung from invisible strings and
crickets sang a chorus of night,
a song to carry my soul to sleep
in a lonely land of inhales and exhales.
Cool autumn wind danced from my toes
to tickle my face, blowing under the quilt.
I memorized the scene of silhouette branches
and tiny hurried satellites,
faint light spilling out the window.
Wrapped snug in the patterns of blue,
the varied stitches of white,
I closed my eyes and shivered,
warm and cold all at once.
The Old Oak Door
They beat the old oak door with metal, hot
With orange flame, they cast a holy scene
Through windows of stained glass, an afterthought
Of sacred things that men have turned obscene.
The pastor in the chapel holds his face
And worships at the feet of Christ the Lord;
The mob is all enveloped in God’s grace,
Though fire and blood deface the old oak door.
The pastor cries, “How can these souls be starved?”
For long he has been faithful to the cause.
So many years have passed that God has carved
Lines on the pastor’s face with holy laws.
The pastor takes a passage through the floor;
And, shrouded, joins to burn the old oak door.
Waking to the chill of morning,
I open my eyes
close the window
turn off the blaring alarm
turn on my loud music
throw off my PJs
pull on a sweater and jeans
because it’s cool outside.
It’s warm in my bedroom so
I strip off my clothes
put on light PJs
turn off my quiet music
turn on my morning alarm
open the window
and close my eyes,
falling asleep to the warmth of night.