The girls were always what she was
when what she was was what she dreamed.
By herself she never dreamed,
not any more. A woman does
such daylight things to what she is.
The words could be some country tree
and she again Anne Hathaway,
complex with what she still could be
while watching in an English shade
with all of heaven as a stage.
Drouth I invoke the air in rage,
am like a cancer in a cage-
only myself to burn, to burn;
mere glass and sun on an empty stage.
Pick and spade, curse and yearn-
agatefulls are struck and turned,
one by one and year by year,
until the hollow has been earned.
Now the reckoning is near,
now the starlings rise in fear;
a shadow sweeps across the page
and I was music, talking here.
pits the achilded One
against the unfathered Many.
Asks, ''Who could hear each song
in the All Song?''
Yet the high sun has lanced down.
He washes each square inch of earth
with clear sight,
rays through needle's eye,
kindles motes with all-fire,
searches out my pupil
and graces even me
Mark P. Shea
The devil is a man, not unlike
a father who has his faults.
He can't help but take hold
beneath the blue flame of vein and skin.
He will not be moved, divided from the body
he has made his own image.
Once in fire to forge a dagger,
Once in water to still this breath,
Yet the stink of life lingers.
We cannot kill what we do not own,
fighting for repossession, dying
to save the self, to be set free.
There is always a man waiting, our father,
wanting the way a father wants:
to cast, to reel, fisher of men.
Carol E. Miller
So Mozart ages hence could write his Requiem.
James Andrew Miller