Two Poems by John Swain

Cavern Saint of Wild Beasts

After all the pathways of air
lain on land and sea and bird,
I curled to the worst
becoming one with every sin
and hurt.
The rain came
apart like a speechless child,
I ran beaten strangled and born
through the molten trees
before two candles burnt down
against my throat
and raised a choking fishbone.
Who was me must now forget
the love and wanting
in a green night bowl of stone
where your eyes were owl,
I learned not to wait for God
in our seeing, touch to listen.

Creekwalking

 

Day of the winds

avalanche of leaves,

the juniper singing

with red blackbirds

telling the spring.

I closed the door

and walked the creek

following green steps

freeing the land

to choose movement.

Sun cast my shadow

beside and forward,

almost a friend

like we had joined

in another lifetime.

Buried you said

love could only live

in never owning

all that was given

from source to end.

The broken stones

poured down water

for light’s mirror,

we changed there

paled until always.

 

 

 

John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Crisis Chronicles Press published his most recent chapbook, White Vases.