Knocking on heaven’s door
Those who knock on heaven’s door
know what opens it,
playing, building in that space,
painting, weaving, singing, healing
In that place Spirit turns
words into wands,
water into wine, crosses oceans,
rockets to the moon and other universes
Some call their knocking change of heart
and what comes forth, amazing grace
Some drum up sacred sounds,
dance with them and grow a world
There is no end to what can be,
knocking on heaven’s door
.
Beginnings and Endings
Thor’s fist and forearm, archetypal hammer,
tall diaphanous maidens glide by;
a voice on my left whispers
‘Those aren’t born of Reasoning’
Thor and the maidens signal no endings
People sublimate to build a nation
and realize a vision;
when their wills become feeble
they make hammers with alloys
and built-in obsolescence
Choosing to be true
Garcia Lorca was shot dead,
Joan of Arc chose death by fire;
opting out of life in prison
both signaled the fall of fixed opinions
about what matters
Innocence and freedom are reclaimed with truth
whether one keeps his mere body or not;
Garcia Lorca’s voice lives on,
his laurel wreath glowing in eternal light
and Joan of Arc communes with her God
.
The poet
is a misfit
disaffecting
those who would disable her
she’s trouble
like plato’s escaped prisoner
delights in discovery
in seeing
and seeing further
though she may be
blind like homer
and when her faith
wiggles out of its cocoon
into a poem
it sometimes has wings.
.
My Father
Warrior, poet, compassionate philosopher,
my father showed chivalry to women
and good will to all
I learned from him what is possible,
not what is common now;
he chose to be guided by honor
When I need to discover higher ground
within myself, and hold it,
he is my beckoning star.
.
Sun
Sun
soft and warm
reminds me of you
touching my arm.
.
New day
(for Oedipus)
The blind king no longer hides and by midday light
finds every corner. Perceiving players and plots unite,
the inevitability of truth, at sundown the king declares all is well
and vanishes.
.
Communion
Come to me in the night,
your body off, soul to soul;
we will fill the space,
move without moving, making love.
.
3 Easter chicks
black and yellow peeps on pronged toothpicks
one with a wounded red thigh
is pecked non-stop by 2 needle beaks
moved out of reach
he screeches incessantly
.
Warmth Enough
The blue spruce was white against the sky
and clumps of shadows frozen gray that March,
a pale year, our coldest month in many winters.
My uncle’s beard glittered with crystals,
he said a mackinaw was not enough
or the fur-lined boots he wore;
the cold paralyzed his fingertips
through fur-lined gloves; still,
he was hunting because he liked to hunt,
and his fingers curled with warmth enough
to pull the trigger. A squirrel fell from a branch,
flickering crimson across the snow.
Then another. He said we had our dinner
and floundered through the drifts
to pick up the bodies.
He said he wasn’t dependent for his meat
on any city’s butcher.
.
Aunt Heather
A black and white snapshot shows
aunt Heather, six years old, seated at a piano
staring hopefully at a page of music.
Short sleeves puff against her pinafore straps,
plaid ribbons tie back her braids.
Her third, right finger is on a key,
those on each side point upward like a spatula.
Though Heather had a teacher,
she learned to read numbers instead of notes –
that seemed easiest, she said, but
only notes were in the second book.
(Her teacher said she lacked interest.)
Heather made me promise, on principle,
not to depend on teachers
and to keep to difficult paths.
.
C’est à l’intérieur…
Le soleil brille
sur tout le monde,
sans juger, mais
c’est à l’intérieur
que je suis heureuse,
ou non.
Où es Tu, mon Dieu?
Où suis-je? C’est moi-même
que je dois retrouver,
comme toujours,
pour sentir Ta chaleur.
.
It Is Inside…
The sun shines on all
without judging,
but it is inside
I am happy, or not.
Where are You, my God?
Where am I?
It is myself I must find again,
as always,
to feel Your warmth.
.
Letting Go
Out of the cave I called my home,
beyond the mere life of this body
the universe is disrobed.
There is no place now to fall,
no desire to shrink.
I can see myself burrow into earth,
hover over the sun
and walk down a street —
I can see everything I’ve done,
pretending many roles.
I can transform into a living cross
or a mummy wrapped in white
spiraling in space
if I choose,
as I’ve chosen before.
Beyond this mere life
I’ve traveled many roads
in the all-seeing eye
creating the world;
I was with Homer and Aesop, with Charlemagne
and in the water Christ walks on,
in hurricanes and harvests.
Don’t say it cannot be,
that these and other things
don’t or didn’t happen;
I know what I know.
And here is my test for truth —
the exact consideration,
and what works:
beyond this body’s walls
where I live
the machinery of bondage
in heaven and on earth
is vanishing.
.
The Visitor
Like rain dropping into the sea
like mist evaporating
when boundaries disappear
I grow larger and larger
***
The shape-shifter that sets me free
unveils what I hold too tightly,
lives behind my masks and in them,
in stones too, and mere words
***
Faithful as a rising sun
love appears dressed in light
to unite with me, to create new life,
when I am willing.
.
Mummy Rest
I spend my nights
in a case grown large,
watch serpents in the noon sun
swallow their tails,
at dusk
glide into river reeds.
Nefertiti will bring a womb
for me, soon to be her son,
hoping I will not blame
this time
but remember
the small thought
that begins
life in death
death in life.
Everything that is
vanishes; after sensation
that most delights me.
We sat on thrones
built by slaves,
their songs
captured in the stones,
found, whether king or footstool,
man does nothing
he does not choose —
but much he will deny.
An old woman
inches through the drizzle,
taps her stick
along the foggy shore
looking for something washed up.
We will begin again —
new, transformed.
.
The fairies
They still study with Merlin’s coterie
and honor sundry desires
like their cousins, the angels.
Knowledge yet keeps them light
and their wings brightly rainbow
while much they do be hidden
but fewer appear fully-formed
when today’s reality experts
go on their paid vacations.
Some say fairies are migrating
to places unknown, for security reasons.
.
Middle Way
I have found beginnings
of my middle way,
coming round full circle
after touring the world
in many pieces
and putting them together.
I can see truth and wisdom
on paths I believed
opposed my own;
what seemed contrary
belongs now in my larger world
where, almost surprised
I find myself centered,
somebody at home.
© poems by Joneve McCormick 