Poetry of Terri Glass

The Miracle of Love

The bloody miracle of love
is what I want
where the "I" dissolves into
an acrobat of color
tumbling into a field of tulips
or the petrified fossils of the Painted Desert.
I don't want to leave this world 
of shape and color.
I don't want to leave
the oasis of the imagination
or the dream of the earth.
For I am made of clay and granite,
dandelion seed and a hawk's feather.
I freefall, I rip open
and out pours a turquoise sky,
out pours rainclouds of grief.
I am all Northwest and Southwest,
a crisscross, an upright cross,
Jesus bearing the cross--
I want to return to
the bloody miracle of love.

From the Song of Yes, 2010

Evening in Inverness

Evening in Inverness 
It came in.  Like a thick topping of cool whip
and cast a shroud over the bay
and I swear I was in Scotland
where through the mist you
catch a fleeting glimpse of Nessie   
before she swoops down into the cold dank waters.
I do not know how and why an 80 degree day
can end this way.
I don’t know how and why
someone who calls you darling one moment
enters those dank waters and attempts
to pull you under.
I must knit a scarf of seagull dander
so my ears won’t freeze from this sudden drop.
I must cast the stones out of my pockets
before I walk straight into the bay
so I float like a seal pup, like a whip
of bull kelp.
And I grapple every day among the
blooming lilac and apple blossom trees.
I grapple for words, for pumice stones
for the glorious fog that floats, drifts
and swoops down over Mt. Vision
like a nativity scene of Christ
and I am forever cradled
and swaddled in its cold white
swirling mystery.
 Published in Fourth River, 2010


The problem was the owl’s eyes were so perfect, so black, so lustrous, so elliptical that I wanted to be lost in them forever, to enter into a bird’s eye view of the world, to see in the dark, be the dark, be inside out blackness.
The problem was the owl’s feathers were so gray, so gunmetal gray, so coat of squirrel gray, so blue gray that I wanted neither day or night, to be in sheer limbo of it all, mute and silent.
The problem was the owl’s head swiveled from left to right like a Lazy Susan, like it had no vertebrate, like its head could twist off like cap from a bottle, like watching a skater whip around in circles, that I wanted all my mental thoughts to dissolve.
The problem was the owl’s mottling was so white, so virginal, like the soft down of a swan, like a lamb lived in its feathers that I wanted to drift into deep sleep.
The problem was the Spotted Owl was so beautiful that I no longer wanted to be human, that I wanted to dwell in the wellspring of those eyes, that I wanted to take flight in the cool night air with fringed wings, to be silent and soft feathered, to fall from a great height at will sensing the barely visible.
Published in ViVACE 4, 2014

An Angel

Not just an angel
a nymph on the water
a speck of color
translucent wings
dark eyes in the middle.
She could tickle
without touching
brush the sunlight
without melting
she was lighter
than white silk.
Delicate, delicate
she would rise
out of nowhere
sing the song of insects
summer on the lake.

He tried to hold her
in the light
stretch her wings
to see a pattern.
But she dissolved
upon his touch
Leaving only angel dust
upon his fingers.

from Unveling the Mystical Light, 1996, Fisher-Dizick Publishing