An oracle spoke in a thin, veiled voice,
    "Chant seven psalms and rejoice."

I touched ten tapers
    and bowed to go
my head felt hot
    though brushed with snow
in a sun-lit garden, a statue stood
with a saintly smile that split the wood
there were no shadows,
    there was no rhyme,
just memories of myself
    of an earlier time

My chanting began on a tone
    loud and high
and a shower of dolphins
    dove from the sky

all ghostly white with silk smooth skin
while I sang of my mother giving milk again
no words did I say,
    for I knew none at birth,
yet, those psalms were writ,
    but, not on this earth

That statue's smile is gone,
    a father's frown I see
Were you saddened to know
    your loving son was me?

Seven psalms are sung, my voice is still,
seven suns are setting below a purple hill

Glad I am, my heart rejoices,
I am a song of other voices.

Frogs
clinging to shoulders
of soldiers slinging
week-end pass bags,
believing in transmigration of souls,
visualize
puff-throat ancestors
hitched to hips of palace-pool guards
bathing beneath the eye of Horus--
frogs
practicing for the plague to come.

It's charming to meet you,
unexpected, of course.
No reason to tremble
like an unbroken horse.
Still, I shudder to think
when them folks down there know
that God is a Woman on the very late show.
They'll be a book burning when a million bells peal;
all them prayers won't help 'cause this babe is for real.

How can we meet again? You're too busy to stay?
Well, send me a zip code so I'll find the way.
Where night of the mind
is light of the soul.
Essence is everything; I'm out of control.

The pleasure's all mine
though channels grow dim.
Is my suffering a joke?
Those commercials are grim.
Courage is failing to keep up with the ghosts
of all of man's sins and the price of pork roasts.

So long until next time.
It gets lonesome up here.
This God is a Woman
to whom all life is dear.
I cherish all goodness,
the weak and the brave.
Tap dancers go to Heaven
whether princess or knave.