The Emblem (from Blackbirds)


Green was the world that we once shared in times of Brown and Grey

the One who left the Golden Sun consigned to depths of Blue her aim cut through the tides the same in mind

and shadows starved the faceless madness blind which once bled through but left her there within the cleft in kind

no penalty but fate opened the same deep scales set even in pride he rent the earth to hide his shame

to take a chance at life and stake a claim quelling questions and chained in faith to lose or gain a name

and drowning out through waves which whelm above in raves of red a brackish throne beneath his blackened head

around enclosed in currents sound he wed resigned to take the hand they find that fled images in

mirrors that show the faces long unknown to tend the curse set in the hand to purse to rend

and purge his visage before surging mend the appointed and one along at last to come and end

the fallen reign that coos in call the free vessel of the turning pillars backward burning three


leaving one bereft of weaving born and buried torn and tattered down and worn in

baleful heaving pantomimes of grieving morning held afar adorning

pride against the mounting tide and rending face to keep from tending

beautiful hide from stony form abiding sending taunts that have no ending

built with shining steel hilt broken as a sacred token and

bending tilting over bloodstains spilt awoken with the message spoken

there into the darkness fair in seething torrents underneath

the waves

increasing vacancies where a sinner had once been

aghast and made to cast glowing laments to shelter all themselves

from pasts in which their masks pay well to halt the bells

that tease and subtly seize beginning hides the kin with

their full share beneath the stare – that garishly unpared


Dirty Hands


Dirty hands pressed together

searching for a spring

to wash away these frosty days

and ease this suffering


Dirty hands push the plow

to sow tomorrow’s pain

a blistered blessing glist’ning sweat

held out in hope of rain


Dirty hands reach up

grasping for a plate

to feed a fickle fantasy

a hunger for to sate


Dirty hands dealt down

clenched and forming fists

a promise for preeminental

pummels upon wrists


Dirty hands pointing out

for bags of silver three

the way for bloody feet to tread

and darkened eyes to see


Dirty hands dig themselves

deeper everyday

a pity as their penitence

but buried there to stay


Dirty hands rub upon

dirty arms and legs

with dreams pristine they seek to clean

themselves down in the dregs


Dirty hands pressed together

nowhere left to go

despair set in through sordid sin

without forgiving flow


Dirty hands drift above

and flail to stay aloft

within the miry muck downpoured

from clouds above the waft


Dirty hands plunged beneath

the dark and stormy tides

for their at last once all has past

their cleanliness abides