After the Memory of Death

I remember my life after death
where my body no longer struggles

     against the struggles which a body longs for
     thrown into the pool where fear plays.

Playful fear splashes in the neighbor's pool
making cries mocking the pull of drowning.

     The mockingbird cries pulling drowning
     sorrows into the radiance of blue.

Blue radiates, mirroring the drops of sorrow
upon the neat page listing summer plans.

     Summer pages turn neatly as plans list
     according to the number of joyful shouts.

I shout with joy counting the number
of times I live after the memory of death.

Conscience

Yesterday unbinds the conscience of today
twisting happiness free from the pressed grip.

     Gripping hands wrench happiness away,
     claiming some divine birthright over all others.

My right to birth claimed nothing and everything
when I arrived from nowhere into expanse.

     Arriving, somewhere rather than nowhere,
     I learn how to be sadly dangerous.

Danger and sadness merge silently
when blood threatens to appear on white pages.

     No blood found on pages, black and white,
     means demands have not yet crossed borders.

Borders demand to be crossed so as to
unbind the conscience of tomorrow.

Starting Point

The place where I started can be found
among chewed pencil stubs marking the moment

     between moments marked by pencil scribbles
     noting the time when boring entered my lexicon.

I first said boring the time when I was born,
apologetically to my mother as she screamed.

     I have since apologized to my mother
     for all the times when I made her cry.

Secular folks are not the only ones to cry,
begging for a sign that reads, Smile, Sinner.

     There are signs smiling all across this Land
     around which we circle seeking our home.

Sometimes going around in circles
I never find the place where I started.