After the End, We Begin

Quiet Street, Anywhere
On a soft brown morning she will never
find again
With purposeful gesture lost in
the rhythmic flight of her soul

A closed red door listens to
and learns from

The ballad in this
Woman’s heart

There is nothing more than this
Though we may wait
There is nothing more than this
Though we may yearn
There is nothing more than this
There is nothing more than this
There is nothing more than this
Though we may wake

Breathe
Eat
and sleep again

We will begin to understand that
God has reason for everything
Under the suns

As beautiful as we are
Form and structure
Precision and grace
Strength and spirit
Hands folded
Body supple
Head bowed

And the flow that ebbs
In our rise

©Dorhora. 9-27-13. All rights reserved.

I Was Thinking

I Was Thinking

At break point
Will I split wide open into two fractured selves

or will I implode masterfully
Gracefully
Sucking the energy of all passerby souls
into my ever–spinning ear–splitting
Gluttonous void

I see extinction living here like chronic dust
Three–dimensional matter piling their sins
into a one–dimensional room – I can only
bring question

For nothing is certain
but death

under a flaming red sun
or a dry silver–white moon

©Dorhora. 5-16-13. All rights reserved.

This is the line – crossed.

This is the line – crossed. This is the line where twisted hallelujah jargon and uninterrupted curses merge into one. This is the breaking point where there is an absence of humor in the punch line. Lighthearted laughter does not come easily but sarcasm and sighs run deeply within my grain. I long for goodness and a pure heart, like those God-fearing, church-going Christians, but I stand upon a three-legged pedestal, off-kilter with the rest. I have never existed well within perfect, little circles. They seem to close others out and shut down those within. I prefer arcs – wide, sweeping and massive embraces of kindness and tolerance that are never afraid to let others come and go as they please. There, language is free, unencumbered words having their say. And there, actions are both maddening and graceful with no question of form or propriety. Consequences, yes; but no judgments, and faith has no standard measure. I could live there forever, communing and loving at my heart’s desire. And despite being so terribly human, irregular and damned, forgiveness would still be mine for the keeping. Amen.