Butterfly

If I were a little butterfly

I would drink from summer’s well

And if I were a butterfly

All my flowers would sing and tell:

That the sun

Is my best friend

As I fly

In the warm, warm wind

And you, my love,

Are my best friend

Holding me

In your arms of wind.

If I were a butterfly

Mornings would always be bright

Like it is this morning, love,

With your eyes so full of sunlight.

-Geoffrey Griffard

Sweet buttery sleep

Sweet buttery sleep

a batter of dreams and leftovers

eternal soup of days and nights

and all the crumbs

that fell through the cracks.

Pour me into some form

so tonight that I may be

a risen, starchy baby fresh

from the oven,

still steaming from the heat

of my REM cycle.

The crows come calling

the rats salivate on their ties

and the baker’s daughter…

steals a bite…

a lick…

a lungful of the fumes

of my fresh-made self.

Your hands

I can let only one

of your hands go

to roam only as far

as your arm’s reach

I will hold the other

here on my heart

as ransom for the return

of its mate.

A Lasting Gift

Have I rubbed off the shine

Have I undone the bow

Is this love still new

With a Christmas-morning glow?

Does it now fall apart

Will it now be replaced

Is this love still working

Or was our promise a waste?

Is every day a new one

Is every night our last?

This love is the only gift

That gets better with each day past.

-Geoffrey Griffard

The River

I have known you

as I would a river—

I walk the shores,

can see the rocks

in the stream,

have tasted,

swam in,

floated down,

but you flow on—

I am left with

the two shores

of who I thought

you were.

-Geoffrey Griffard

Early Morning Resurrection

We stumble bleary-

eyed into heaven,

hung-over from life,

stinking of garlic, onions,

the sweet earth that

devoured us

a million tiny bites at a time

as we lay in the big bed of Death;

dreamless sleep

undisturbed by noisy neighbors,

snoring, or alarm clocks—

oh, Jesus,

there goes that trumpet

(more like a goat bleat)

calling all deadheads to rise—

I throw back the earth

cursing the early hour,

then lay back for a ten-minute snooze.

-Geoffrey Griffard

Partake

I partake of your

garlic BBQ fried potatoes

offered to me in purity,

salivating at the thought

of our communion.

Is it wrong to crave your body?

It saves it saves it saves

benedict me, resurrect me

give me your holy roasted

honeyed word

to help me live right

like a salty saint

boiled in oil

oh so holy crispy

wispy cotton clouds

drift past the Son

and we block our eyes

when He returns

all golden brown

dripping his sacramental juices

partake Partake AWAKE

-Geoffrey Griffard