Under the Arbour

Where is the line I cross to raise your ire,
the deeds your sacred truths will not defend.
How quick you are to cast me in the fire-
with supple grace I burn where you won’t bend.

I see myriad colors and their casting
set forth before my feet in bright array.
Life in me and me bound everlasting
not the fear locked path from which you stray.

Is your scope so narrow, viewed so darkly,
no wide lens gaze at all creation wrought.
Can full joy be known when seen so starkly.
who is the teacher, who the pupil taught.

The fault not owned by Christ but Christendom
and neither glorified by martyrdom.

When April trumpets blare with good intent,
bright daffodils a’ sway in gentle breeze
I’m milked of every dime, each blessed cent.
My pounding brain grows louder by degrees.

The pain I feel makes it hard to believe
the kinder IRS, so saccharine.
No refund due to me, I won’t receive
enough to buy some blasted aspirin.

The curses on my lips I will repress,
well knowing how I’ll spend my tax rebate.
There is no need to worry or to guess,
to what I owe next year I will donate.

I’m sorry if this leaves me in a funk.
If I had two thin dimes I’d go get drunk!

These are the things I count with quiet joy,
a tally of the measure I am worth-
an aching back with labor to employ
and fingernails near blackened from the earth,

a sheltered patch of land with dreams to sow
to mark the progress of all growing things,
a cup to sip the seasons as they go,
and recognize the beauty each one brings,

to bathe in streams that tumble on their way
lulled by their sweet and timeless lullabies,
an ear to hear the wisdom of each day-
simplicity that grounds me as it flies.

Far from the stricken pace of city life
here I reside, the willing bride of life.

I heard Joan Baez sing in sixty-nine
before the Yasgur crowds, her truth aroused
the passions we set free as we caroused
in New York mud, on California wine.

We knew it then, how could we all forget
how stark oppression settles on the world
when flags of freedom can not be unfurled
and blood is spilled in sacrosanct Tibet.

I went to hear sweet Joanie sing tonight,
an activist on tour at sixty six,
still singing of the things we did not fix-
an angel with a sword of gentle might.

For every blatant truth, awash in red,
our apathy ignores our countless dead.

When morning’s slanting rays enlight’ no more
and I am gone from here come good or ill,
will you then love me as you did before,
your spanning time and space an act of will.

Will you still draw me near if you’ve a choice,
in memory of once and pure delight-
when death’s own silence steals the ocean’s voice
though weaker hearts be broken in that flight.

When breath and body yield themselves to dark
and I no longer sleep in your embrace,
have you the faith that journey to embark,
to tread the roads of gossamer and lace.

Will you, Beloved, find me in the stars-
where we will claim eternity as ours.

Here in the temple you and I alone,
every inhibition overthrown
delving deeper still than blood or bone.
Only now, no sins we need atone.

Here as silken scarves and dreams caress-
every soul-trussed fantasy undressed
on this altar, spread with willingness.
Love and lust, yes need and want confessed.

Simmered passion leaps to fan the fire,
swirls among the flames, incites desire-
bells at throat and ankles, hips inspire
us to peak as one while reaching higher.

Seared and sky clad on the cusp of night,
sated in the moon’s most perfect light.