Origami Microchap

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Among the Stars

our love pilfers
moonlight
from the heavens
steals sunlight
from the blue
corrupts our nights
easing under
untouched embers of
our desires
cascading into
the river of our love
that burns
and dissolves the
fragrant souls
of immortal love

I taste your
desire
covet your
touch
and etch your
embrace among
the stars

Aglow

I love you like
our hair is on fire
our feet to the flame,

boiling in oil—roiling,
racing to the finish, ignited
rockets expending fuel

until nothing is left
but charred
after-burn,

our smoldering bodies
extinguished—
done.

Click title to open PDF microchap

Cover collage by JanK

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Sunshine

leans on my skin
like a weight
without sound,

Cooking molecules
in no hurry
to leave,
into piles of darkness
spilled
onto the night,
as my body cools
from my knees down;
warmth no longer
a thing to be desired.

Night crawlers and red worms

All earthworms
ruminate like cows,

with four stomachs, dissolving
themselves as they

mix, aerate, ingest—
bringing their own ‘sompin’-sompin’’

which is a natural talent for expelling
slow-released nutrients.

Listening to deep darkness
in silent contemplation,

worms are not the center of it all —
they don’t gossip over accomplishments.

Their ego is excreted along with the refuse,
as the self dissolves — nature absorbs.

Click title to open PDF microchap

Cover credit:

Callejuela de pueblo rural,

tipico de Asturias con gallina

por el medio by LLeandralacuerva

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A metered poem in six stanzas
that creates a small drama.

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In Cordova #1

On Smith Street
behind

the market,
small, pink-

skinned piglets
skitter

among weeds.
Gamin,

whose necks will
be sliced-

supplying
breakfast.

In Cordova #2

Blinding sunlight
hides the weeds -

alley cats chase
young chickens

whose feathered necks
will be cut

swiftly along
with the rest,

red blood running
in the sun

down the crevice
that divides.

In Cordova #3

A spider sat
above me

while I did my
business,

its juices dripped
on my leg

just before I
stood to spy

its treachery
in the eaves-

a canopy
of sunlight.

In Cordova #4

Chicory and rose
perfumed the air.

Mariachi songs
ascend the stair.

Charro suits glitter
with treachery.

In the plaza she
dances and twirls -

her red skirts shimmer
and black hair whirls.

Her ebony eyes
are contraband.

Earth in My Journey

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Cover photo by author

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Earth in My Journey

I wanted to put some earth
in my journey -
get down to the soil,
dig up the loam,
and till it some -
plow and plant a little
in the earth of my life
to see what grows-
I wanted to sow a new
seed in the turf -
to see if a better person
could walk this earth.

Published in the Mpls. Southwest
Journal, September 21, 2017.

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The Pope’s Beef Benedict

Hiding in my luggage are two
bottles of Merlot, a wheel of Parmesan
and a Pinocchio Marionette
debating the wisdom of traveling
to distant lands where one finds
such mysteries,

where one can dine on the Pope’s Beef
Benedict with its juxtaposition
of seared meat and raw taste,
which I ate for supper, along with a red wine

so full and voluptuous, like the women in Rome
who bare their bosoms to the sun,
who sing to the angels and plant their pomegranates
of spring in hopes of a good harvest.
Let us remember their sacrifices.
Let us call to them to remind us of their
lusty lives and austere motivations.

Let us send our gratitude skyward to a God
who would provide such riches and Thanks
be to God that we can view the road our ancestors
traveled, learn from their journey, and build on
the wisdom unearthed.

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In Assisi

We shuffled into the small room
single file, quietly–mute as church
dust, snugged up close to each other
like children nestled in their beds.
We sat silently, contemplating our
opportunity and good fortune.

The wooden beams spoke;
the low ceiling centered us;
calmed and claimed us,
in the rose perfumed air.

I wept there, in the chapel,
as we had mass. Eight hundred
years is a long time to keep
the faith, yet only a second
to those who came before.

The peace of God touched us;
His hand on our heads, as we knelt
there in prayer - the same way
that he touched St. Francis
and St. Clare so many years ago.

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Relics

I’ll put you in a glass coffin
and display your bones,
list your many achievements
while I hone the trumpeting of
your life-charging a dollar per look.

I’ll place stanchions along
the floor so the viewing
line can snake through your
holy place, pay a penny
for their thoughts of you,
a man of all ages, a man
to be venerated.

Your photo will hang
in people’s homes
as an example of good
works and holy thoughts,
because, everybody wants
your chromosomes,
and a reason for the plaque
on their wall saying,
“Jones slept here.”
It never gets old.

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