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Why God Is Really A Woman

Rachel Poems

And Others


Sam Silva

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


© 2006 Sam Silva. This collection and all poems contined herein are the property of Sam Silva and cannot be duplicated or distributed without the consent of the author. 2

Why God Is Really A Woman

For Rachel

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva



Why God Is Really A Woman


Some poems in this collection have previously seen publication in online form. The author wishes to acknowledge the online magazines that have supported, and continue to support, the publication of poetry.

With sincere gratitude to the following:

Autumn Leaves

Stroll of Poets

Views Unplugged

Scissor Press

And most especially:

Indie Journal

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva



Why God Is Really A Woman


I have a hard time being objective when it comes to Sam Silva or the work he produces. I have known him for sixteen years and have watched him develop as a writer while struggling with the demons of mental illness. His life has been a remarkable journey from hardship to hardship, dealing with terrors both real and imagined. And yet, through it all, or perhaps, because of it all, he has managed to produce high quality poetry and prose, most often raising the intellectual and emotional bar for himself with each extended effort. I first got to know Sam in the late 1980’s when we were both very active in the small press magazine scene. I had begun a print version of a small magazine called Third Lung Review and had begun as well to do a limited edition chapbook series for poets that I felt deserved recognition beyond what was available in the magazine. My only goal was to break even on each publication so that the series could continue.

It quickly became apparent to me that Sam’s work deserved such attention. He was already very serious about his art, and there was something in his poetry that made it a singular commodity in the small press. It had nothing to do with talent; he obviously was a gifted wordsmith who understood the music of the language. Sam’s poetry just mattered more than that of most of the writers I dealt with because he was totally committed to it. He doesn’t just take a stand on an issue; he is the stand. This is evident even in his first chapbook, My Prayer is a Blue Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Passage, which I am proud to claim as a Third Lung production. Over the years, Sam has accomplished much with both written and oral publications. He has proven to be a keen observer of his own life in auto-biographical prose pieces that challenge the reader, our society, and sometimes our own sense of reality. Silva continually improves upon his verse, working with a line, a rhythm, and sometimes a rhyme that lulls then startles. Sam Silva has a heart for the third world and a beautiful capable mind. Give his fine poetry and prose a chance, and you will not be disappointed. Tim Peeler

May 9, 2005

Tim Peeler is the Director of the Learning Assistance Program at Catawba Valley Community College in Hickory, North Carolina. He has written two books of baseball-related poems, published by McFarland & Co, Touching All the Bases and Waiting for Godot’s First Pitch. He is a co-author with Carter Monroe and Robert Canipe of Writers on the Storm, a collection of short stories and essays, and he is also co-author with Brian McLawhorn of a local pictorial history book titled Baseball in Catawba County. Peeler has published a small press magazine, Third Lung Review, since 1986. Tim Peeler’s poems and other works have appeared in several hundred magazines, journals, and anthologies. His work has appeared in an HBO documentary and is part of the collection at the National Baseball Hall of Fame. 8

Why God Is Really A Woman

Collection I

Rest for the Nearly Wicked

I Sleep In A Soldier Town . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Nature As Unique . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

The Poet And The Hairdresser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Inches From The Meaning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Cities Made For War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

What Might Make Us Beautiful . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

The Monkeys Chattered In The Den Of Death . . 20

Quite Near The Oldest Profession . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Something More Akin To Religion . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Rest For The Nearly Wicked . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

On Being Ready . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Collection II

Chapter One: Rachel Poems

On this Planet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

It was like a Dream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

If God Is A Woman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

This World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Bird of Mine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

Now the Heart May Confess . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

A Garden View from a Kitchen Window. . . . . . . . 37

What it takes to be an Artist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38

Love Which Greets the Harvest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

In Living All These Years With You . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Devouring Your Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

Salvation as a Girl Child in the Wilderness . . . . 43

Of Passion and of Angels . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44

Looking at the Snow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Among all of these cold Days and Ways . . . . . . . 46

How I Explain My Snowy Sleepiness . . . . . . . . . . 48

If Only a Star Claims Your Beauty Now . . . . . . . 49

Art as a way of Living . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

That Quiet Heart Which Listens . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

Keeping Rachel’s Warmth Alive . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54

December’s Perfect Sweetheart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

I Dream You Such a Valentine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56

Why God is really a Women . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

To Rachel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

Chapter Two: Indie Journal Poems While We Wait For It To Come Out . . . . . . . . . . . 63

Jesus As Opium…God Knows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64

Wishing For This Less Than Nothing . . . . . . . . . 65

Technologies of Sunday Night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

The City Of The Hypocrites . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68

The Things We Love And Kill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69

Please Unlearn This Ugly Secret . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70

Magdalene Knows What Art Is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

The Only Truth Within Your News . . . . . . . . . . . 72

Turning Away From Our Freedom . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

The Rome Of The Church And

The Rome Of America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75

Another Point Of View . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77

Winter Unto Winter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78

A Child In The Wilderness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

Fayetteville As Medusa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80

Meaning Just Short Of Your Average Six Pack . . . 81

Fearing That Prayers Have

Succumbed To Nicotine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82


Why God Is Really A Woman

The Woman Who Belonged on Top . . . . . . . . . . . 84

God Gives Grace To My Trailer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86

A Faery Tale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88

Hamburgorial Eucharist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90

What The Angels Think Of My Ego . . . . . . . . . . . 92

Thunder In A Nursery Rhyme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94

The Ennui Of The Inland Heart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95

Habits Much Like Pop Corn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

In Our Own Preferred Morality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98

What The Devil Also Knows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100

A Victim Of Bread And Circus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101

Sin Means Being ‘Without’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102

The Way The Dead Might Live . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104

A Brief Electronic Treasure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

The State Of The Poor And Their Religion . . . . 106

Ah Yes! Such Uncivilized Notions. . . . . . . . . . . . 108

Uber Alles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109

Knowledge Of Death As A Nightmare . . . . . . . . 110

In The Outdoor John At Rowan Park . . . . . . . . . 113

If One Considers Rome And Istanbul . . . . . . . . 114

The Global Sacrament . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116

Was Like Unto A Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118

Animal Aesthetics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120

What On Earth Is The Holy Spirit? . . . . . . . . . . 122

The Meaning Of The Scripture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124

The Rich Boy At His Trial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125

Just As The Cynics Had Proclaimed . . . . . . . . . . 126

Another Modern Hero . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127

A Thousand Stupid Answers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128

The Right To Do As You Choose . . . . . . . . . . . . 129

The Idea Of Girl Child Among The Elders . . . . 130

What We Did To Fools Like Jesus . . . . . . . . . . . 132

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Oh Brothers And Sisters Of Freedom . . . . . . . . 134

The Charity In The Woman’s Heart . . . . . . . . . . 136

Painting The Pig In Miami . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

William Is The Word He Made . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140

Underneath The Factory Surface;

The Rise And Fall Of The Iron Dildo . . . . . . . . . 142

Sacraments Of America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143


Why God Is Really A Woman

Collection I

Rest For The Nearly Wicked

I Sleep In A Soldier Town

This city was a swamp, in Indian days.

The dregs along the Cape Fear brought such ware and sent tobacco back for that which pays

a renegade from life to keep his hair

…then lose it to the wet and fog that grays. Snakes and eels to fill a river’s fare!

Of course, it is a soldier town in this bright age; bright and wicked as the scalding night.

The air’s on fire! The internet’s the rage. And love’s a lonely, lost, commodity, alright. I found my way here, like a trader, like a tramp, lucky to find a wife and close the door

on a million books where ghostly goblins turned to flesh, or walk the world like me, as nothing more. I sleep in a soldier town. I watch the world and pray that no evil dries to fire, nor that the damp encroachment of our rotten tears put out the lamp before I finish the only sorry book I write

…and somewhere, far away

the world, the angry world,

in its anguished bitter wrath,

falls in the blocks of its computations and its test as we proceed along that same lost path

to war!


Why God Is Really A Woman

Nature As Unique


breathed a warm and normal day

whose circumstance

was odd

but full of light and lovely

…that easy dance of vanquished things in sunlight!

…the door wide open while such breezes bask. This is what I think of mortal clay;

that kind of art my lover paints

upon her canvass.

Spirits! Give them anything

they ask!

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


The Poet And The Hairdresser

This man

posing as a woman

…dressed coquettishly

he fooled me briefly

with his just-so clothes,

with his tender shampoo fingers,

tried tin conversation

to trim my likes

in some unnatural way

I didn’t like

and sick feeling lingers

because, only because,

I found

this foolery made

of a much more male

disease and vocal sound,

more hard and mercurial passion!

Outside…I was pleasant,

I am done, and

I look good.


being made of wood,

I despise

such art that pleases fashion…


Why God Is Really A Woman

Inches From The Meaning

The solace of a Sunday winter-sky!

seen through our kitchen window

where late morning offered up its grace.

Smoke from a cigarette!…a burning sigh

inhales as well

that ambiguity

that might be Heaven, might be Hell

when breath fogs

that reflection of a face


as if toward snow or rain

inches from the meaning

of the pain.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Cities Made For War


could just as easily be kind

in this built over soldier town and swamp

where love and longing are an icy day.

The cold gray hound of night,

the old dog with his bristling

icicles of light

that feeds the street lamps

and the houses

pissed from the moon and sky

such icy rain as

feeds our lullaby

of pain

through dawn

and till the frozen hour of noon

wakes the vagrant mind

too the drizzle of a day…where death!

could just as easily

be kind.


Why God Is Really A Woman

What Might Make Us Beautiful

The seascape painter

puts a crab

in a corner near the waves

that wash the land.

With weighty center

and with spider limbs

and claws that skirt an ocean

and a gaze

level with the sand

…here is the foamy depth to enter;

that portion where the twilight dims,

or with near the same emotion

the sun goes full ablaze

and dawn

lifts up a new light

in her hand

…oh burning stormy moment

when the city meets the sea

in storm

or fire!

And I must be

the sorry crab that makes the lonely seascape real!

…that dawn or dusk should offer

in waves of pure desire,

the contrast

with which a passing glance would feel

that lewd and ugly form

whose artists feel a passion

like a fire or a storm.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


The Monkeys Chattered In The Den Of Death

The monkeys chattered in the den of death

when the golden fruit of happenstance

fell to the luck that luck delivered.

They teased the old ghost…his gaunt gray shadow!

They plucked the nit,

and played with their shit,

and fell asleep with a long long summer breath. And when they woke…the valley was cold

…much too cold to fool and dance!

Nakedly, they blinked and shivered

without solace with the gray ghost gone.

For the den of death is a winter place

when night falls

and the snows erase

all trace

of monkey chatter

from what mindlessly appeared to be

an endlessness of wicked happy song.


Why God Is Really A Woman

Quite Near The Oldest Profession

The same way

that it is barely a fact

that in early January

the snow plows kiss

the road outside,

the world of America

doubts its own existence!

It is a virtual memory

of cyberspace,

a Wall Street transaction

of pornographic hyperbole

for the widower

and the bride,

a place for a child

to be murdered

or grow old,

while stunned and staring

at the cold world outside.

Whereas the crabs of the Atlantic!

…or at the other end

…the endless Pacific’s bright blue eye

rage or extend

the spirit of our billion year blue green.

…in as much

as things

and illusions never end.

Cities come and go

like the cleaning lady

on a dull day

in San Francisco’s artist bay

or in upper Manhattan

where the idea of War

is much like snow

…or powered cocaine

for some lost little whore.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Rest For The Nearly Wicked

Like the smoldering ashes of a fire!

Like pleasure emptied of desire!

The rain…that quiet reverie

whose morning-twilight in a winter city

…joy to passion!

…bliss to peace!

must be like the wet cave

of our forbears,

full of sleepy thoughts

and dreams

that so imagine

if for the briefest time

what the spirits have in mind!

I, in my little circle,

kept from the leopard of the night,

and blessed by a time

that leans toward dawn.

Oh dream between wakefulness and sleep!

Oh quiet, peaceful, song!


Why God Is Really A Woman

Something More Akin To Religion

The snow that feeds our brains!

belies a different kind of thunder

than the wine upon your lips

when seed and thigh

when sky and flower

push through

in March’s windy Ides

the twiggy life

that gently blooms

in all despair

when April rains.

For I was cold and sick

and less than able,

and like any vague unworldly hunger,

I see this distantly, from winter,

as the future and the past,

the acorn and the splinter

defining tragedies

…wooden tragedies

that in their substance never last!

…that in the cold and numbness

that remains

love and sex and pains

are…more a distant

…more a spiritual

table and repast

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


On Being Ready

Oh stammer of insight

bled of a windy shiver!,

it is just too cold

to go outside

for the truth

and the fire and the tears

which your gray morning skies


…just as passion

was never wrought

from the bluster and binge

of the passing years,

so, likewise, we are broken,

and brought

to a little room,

to a January cave

no longer wishing to be the saint

that we sought,

nor the knavish truth that the saint

has sired…

The world is simply too cold

and we are too old

and tired.


Why God Is Really A Woman

Collection II

Rachel Poems and Others

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Chapter One:

Rachel Poems

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva



Why God Is Really A Woman

On this Planet

If a woman came

at the end of the World,

would she needs be Shiva

...a dancing clutching oracle!

of the death in mercy’s

weak and mindless grasp...

...or would she have to be instead,

as some have claimed

in terms of the sky born virtues

of the living and of the dead,

the cold moon of the Virgin,

the chaste and belted star

whose tears

are like icicles

from these northerly places

gone Protestant and wicked

gone fixed in green

and hungry and stuffed

like a meat machine

...oh woman next to me

and far away

gentle as violet pink

..yes! full of blushing flesh

in your garments

of earthen colors

...and blue-green.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


It was like a Dream

For you!...You, who were resplendent in creation!

You who were both feminine and strong!

...painting purpose in its own

believable shy fullness

in million real artworks

alike the abstract of the Sun

...that reticence of the girl-child

lipped along the avenues

of sweating southern summers.

And as summer assails

I call to you

with the vacant thrust

or words that burn with wish

...they say “but you married her heart some years ago can you be that stammering fool?!”

They are confused...I chase you down those avenues, haunt you in my own night-brain.

The stars in the sky will always be

a pool

alive with brilliant pain...for you alone.


Why God Is Really A Woman

If God Is A Woman

That big person

let us say that she is a woman

who binds our wills to love

that intimate ghost of everything

that milk breast heart and dove

with my small feathers

and small sap


but nowhere near great

does she see a need for me?

even now in these failures

and listless endeavors

come of late...?

Does she keep her universe of shadow and of fire for me

only glazed a little in desire for me

in grace

fallen where I am but still spending

small eternities

trying with my word

to paint her face.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


This World

Where is the pleasure in the poem?

Where is the love

in the evocation


as a crippled ritual,

a Eucharist gone stiff and stale!

The old dogs live their lives alone and piss in quivering

legs of bone

whose dull remembrance is that kiss

which came somewhere

from bitch or master

where these have howled grief in the night, both grief and joy

which shook the plaster in rooms where plaster falls

and memory

peels from creation

shadows where the moon was bright.

Where fell the petal from the pistil?

...plucked and drunk like furtive ale

...all gone to a place more dead than fair. Oh Jesus! longingly we pray

the mistress of that distant day

...someplace! it true she calls...?

where passion’s truth holds up the sword...?


Why God Is Really A Woman

Oh daughter of my gone embrace,

you tend to the living and the lace

while bleary eyes trust to the Lord

the eyes of a dog near fallen walls

too dripping dumb to even care.

Now, what was the thing that brought me there and is the thing which brings me home?

The breezes blowing through her bliss

and blowing passion through her hair.

What was the thing that brought me there

and where

is the pleasure in the poem?

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Bird of Mine

Born of those habits

of the night

and twilight evening

whereof the sun

gives slowly

all the light

and the shadow light-amending likewise

toward the walkway

and descending

fluttering step by step

the hours of dawn,

she has been such a song

of sky and wings

and foam and air

where gulls sail by

and passions, fevers, strong

and tears

as thin transparent things

...quiet things

that the mind should seek the worm

and chirp and idle

and then ride the breeze with care


Why God Is Really A Woman

out to the stars

to find that dense idea and that germ

above the continents and seas

...the wing, a quill, a brush

in this stark movement

to go on to paint the other wings and music for the eye in such a pastoral

lullaby and hush

ascending in a windy gush

and one by one

each twilight’s stair

born of the passion of the day

and keeping warm the night

much like the sun.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Now the Heart May Confess

Oh mood of a dark

Saturday rain

and love

dipped down to the gullies

of thought

awash toward the sight of a circular park

where trees are dripping their majesty

in the swollen gush

of God and the sky

both loud and soft

both thunder and cloud

and tears

that fall like a lullaby...


Why God Is Really A Woman

A Garden View from a Kitchen Window

Like the herald of eternity

in caffeine sipped

and winding smoke,

love is a garden’s mortal sea

and words,

are the poet’s, the sailor’s, joke.

What silly prayers at dawn to pray!

What silly poems to bleed and write!

In summer...that facsimile of nature and desire kisses morning

on this windy murmur

over weed and flower

while all of the city rings

a herald on the telephone

beginning with its same early

and essential hour

...whereas the winter wonder from this place is stoic in its windy fire

in dense hypnotic glimmer

of both nature

and the city’s deed.

Coffee and cigarettes

so announce the day

in gleaning through the window light

what silly prayers to pray

and what silly poems to write.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


What it takes to be an Artist

“...Two things” they tell me

“honesty and passion”

And the first part of this

holds true for my words

worn down simply

by a fool’s harsh errands

in failing completely

in the ways of pride and fashion

digging deeply

as they fail to fix themselves

a measure that might keep

the grand etude

....and the sighing thirsty wine held up

like a crafted

gaze within a cup

in labors where the breath is still

But you are the stars and their ressurection!

The art by which words find their inflection!

...but you and your pictures fill me up!

You and your colors

both huge and mute

in the still life next to the window cell

or the nude

whose musical stare will erupt

in the shock over everything

shaded and light

and the stars in my eyes

when we say goodnight


Why God Is Really A Woman

...Oh burning song!

Oh songbird’s flute

when an orchestra of violins

in the mind’s deep eye

play their delight

whose sins have found salvation

in their vision’s painterly creation

and crowned that light where God is true.

...those sins which are so beautiful!

where salvation burns

like a thousand sins...

just as you erupt, and I with you

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Love Which Greets the Harvest

Oh windy corridors of light

where breezes lift the veil of night

in harvest song the Autumn sings

and morning gifts the sunshine blessed

till angels of the evening come

with furtive joy

and luminescent evening wings

and other fires

the stars employ

to grant the doers of the right ending such a pure fatigue

...desires which God alone enjoys.

God and all his angels!

in the harvest of eternal rest!


Why God Is Really A Woman

In Living All These Years With You

As held aloft the reckoning

of my fears

...a sumptuous kiss

that lasts these fifteen years

in adoration of your art,

in pleas

that touch the powers

of your voice.

All of the poetry I own is this,

besides the broad streets and their tears

...the heart you made...the broken heart

in southern city swampland

in flaming soot

and fragrant flowers

which you found

and then gave meaning to ease

and sighing gently

with the choice

of such a sumptuous kiss

as breached the reckoning of my bliss

in living all these years

with you.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Devouring Your Love

The genius in your art

oh wife, and sigh, and essence,

was given to the rump roast

seasoned well

for an evening

of limited comments

and TV

meat and substance

of our wine and toast,

license of our lonely liberty

wearing beauty to its Hell

in dry and winter places

whose mood is thin and tart

until the comic voices start

and all of the saccharine erases

those lingering traces

of the thirst of my conviction

to give, somehow, the world

a gift whose love and presence

would have been more much more than that dry diction

which was ‘me.’


Why God Is Really A Woman

Salvation as a Girl Child in the Wilderness

For things the gods inspire

she knows much more than Helen, yet

she does not know

the perfume of her essence,

the way

that strings of pearls

adorn God’s Church

in all such magnitudes

of pure celestial fire.

She grows

and comes to know a man

or many men

for children

who presume a maiden presence

in gazing with her always

toward the cities where she travels

in a forest full of flowers

... but the self in its desire

however wise

assumes no evil in the flame

that keeps her eyes.

Yet her eyes

much more than Helen’s

understand the mortal power.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Of Passion and of Angels

You are the burning flower!

The artist and the orchid!,

The gardener and the land!,

the wind that sings

about my tower

of passion

and of angels

where I stand.

I neither stand,

but kneel and cower

remembering forever

the light and color

of your face

... love could not utter!, never!

the silent fire that makes my art.

A word and barely whispered

... this flower

and this fire

in the heart.


Why God Is Really A Woman

Looking at the Snow

My bird sleeps in her nest!

Feather and straw

for the mother, the artist,

...the lover of my anguished pen.

Beloved awe!

Beloved rest!

A woman is both sanctity and savior

that she gave her art to me

with smile and yawn.

Both child in a cresh!

And Madonna with her hatchling

come the hours of winter dawn.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Among all of these cold Days and Ways

Among the snakes and their heat likewise

...the serpents and charms and poisons

...there is the dance of you

with the flute of your lips

mothering my terrible and dizzy

swaying hunger

...and among the cats

who corner

the rodents alleyways and cat tied cans

with their rat esteem....among the black paws darting

in predatory game

there is you with your farm

of suckling kittens

...mother cat so sweet and nearly tame

....your connubial hands

that stroke the purring essence

whose strength I never dreamed of

sweetly in my self.


Why God Is Really A Woman

And among all of these cold days

and ways

and freezing icicles

in the promise of a tired september

which came

as a cool and lucky respite

from summer’s inky hell.

There is the art of the pen

which you helped me give myself

(much like christmas and December)

oh artist of the hunger

whose dish I always long for

...truest image

of such a happy spell.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


How I Explain My Snowy Sleepiness

We end knowing nothing

more than our love-born faith

and the accident

of that faith’s cold fire

and the people, creatures

of our desperate embrace

oh father to tender justice

...and you

oh mother to the sky

and to all

whose mercy always arrives

like winter weariness a final desire!

...a lullaby!

...after the fall.


Why God Is Really A Woman

If Only a Star Claims Your Beauty Now

If only a star claims your beauty now!

in a house in the sky

with its nighttime vow!

If you happen to be the first to retire

from this agony

of flowers and fire

from this summer sigh

in a planet’s glow

...or the Winter’s attendant

fields of snow

or in any season of love and desire

where children and sweethearts

come and go

...I will go to the Church of the Lullaby

and sing ‘hail mary’s’ to clouds in the sky that lift you up like the child you are my mother and father, who went before!

And rejoice!, at the joy that waits for a star to beckon me also beyond its door.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Art as a way of Living

In times forbidden to the heart,

feeling numb and neutral,


to what joy

might be illegally invented

in a dry cozy winter room

in that separate moral space

still isolate from death’s cold reach

we hug the fire within our house

where shadows might arise again,

and more than shadows,

flickering colors from some carnival,

some distant beach

thousand distant miles away

within a distant hemisphere whit the lovely air is scented

by candle wicks which burn a peach

and steal this fragrant moment

as if it were infinity.


Why God Is Really A Woman

Tomorrow is infinity

...echoing distant as an empty tomb.

Today is presence full and bright

with burning fires for the night

the multi colored flames we see

that only Artists see and hear

...and words as well

from paradise

chanted up against such light

as saves the joy

and spends the tear

in this imagined carnival

as if from a distant hemisphere

...Tomorrow's empty tomb we leave


by holding up such fire

as burns forever for a day

within the spindles of our art

and leaves no other element

to suffer death

beyond desire...only love

survives this way

in times forbidden to the heart.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


That Quiet Heart Which Listens

That quiet heart which listens

to all nature

and its violins!

The sky is gray

and dull in the head

....with grievous sins!,

or just with misty rain

which soaks the dead


to life’s slow pain

with which all stoic

sinners pay

in that accounting day by day.

Even so,

there is a passion underneath

this bone chill wet

becoming dry leaves

in the mud

becoming cold angelic snow


Why God Is Really A Woman

...there is a love that can’t forget!

There is a joyous fire

in the buried sleeping heart

for things a billion miles away

and things that never leave this place

but live their sweetly dreamed desire

in streets of the mind

which brim with art

for all of the wet

for all of the cold.

Oh race

of hidden angels

musing on the dreary mist that falls!,

yet never weary, never old,

but merely waiting

for a different kind of thunder

when the trumpet calls...

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Keeping Rachel’s Warmth Alive

Beyond the winter-storm

and like a poem that never leaves

but gathers up its form.

I and my sweetheart

and all of the art like these,

will never die

but be the bonded fuse

in Winter’s fire

and the warmth of tropic summers

in that distant island refuge were we go.

Though at times we stand apart,

mortal and bemused,

argue, and then sigh

over what the fates have used

to kindle our desire.

In the woodland of our art

and the garden

of our most physical, glimmers

of the soul and heart

nothing in this story ever ends,

nor tragedy ensues....!

Paint the stars, Rachel!

The stars and all their friends

where we are awake

or where we nod in kindred sleep

...either way to make

the life that longings keep

that summers may unfold

beyond the snow.


Why God Is Really A Woman

December’s Perfect Sweetheart

What hearth could help but burn for you?

The wraiths of Winter melt at your spell!,

daughter of every wedded hereafter!,

and flame with your laughter,

through and through

those ageless days

which you give through you art

and into such a fire ablaze

as raises this cold forbidden Hell

into a glowing firmament of stars

that sing with summer

in my heart.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


I Dream You Such a Valentine

Kissed by a lukewarm day.

Language that drifts

in those dry and smoky caverns

that dopey minds can assay

staring, lonely, out to the yard.

Even so!

Big bloody heart

red like the juice of the vine like red wax dripped

on a dreamy card

wordless in art

which would be

like your art

... not mine!,

though these

are the things that I mean

in the dream

that I have to warm you

with fire and wine

in the desperate desire

that I have and know.

A rainy February, it’s been


to days like today

though I dream

of holding my heart to you

... kissed by the bloodied snow.


Why God Is Really A Woman

Why God is really a Women

Winter would put a frozen layer of ice

on my weak minded ditherings

and slippage

where the last leaf falls

last robin sings

its cold and desperate song

with neither poetry nor device are the light that I lean on!

You are the boulder that stays strong

till each Spring calls

with its murder of the man child

its lifting up of love

and its burying of ancient Hell.

An ancient star speaks of this season

from the rolling skies that promise snow!

But you are the star I believe in

...the only spell I know.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


To Rachel

Rachel’s breathing

and her art

are the music

in the dark...slow church music

fading into sleep

and dark

where two by two

the shades and souls

go through passages and holes

within deep

Hades, full of things, in the way that light on things assumes

that cold and mindless heart which blooms

such symbols in such tiny rooms

till I divine them more in morning-blaze

warmly in her heart and core

those paintings

which breathlessly



Why God Is Really A Woman

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva



Why God Is Really A Woman

Chapter Two:

Indie Journal Poems

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Poems originally published at Indie Journal, an online e-zine. 62

Why God Is Really A Woman

While We Wait For It To Come Out

Shitty little addendum

from the empire state

passed through the corral kiss

of some machine

computerized and falling

to my TV screen

making plump and wholesome jelly

of the thing I ate.

I ate the world

in my old age

and shit a pearl

upon the poet’s page!

A jellied pearl!

...a little gumdrop

sweetening every saccharin thought.

Thoughts are made of matter

from the shit

the lump, the jelly drop

the smelly pearl I bought.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Jesus As Opium…God Knows

Lord give us a gentle numbness

...a wine thin smile

on a Catholic card! eye dropped low

to ease the faces wrinkle!

and a way to float and stumble

on soft surfaces

like the dough of the earth.

Like the dough of the earth,

poppy rich and sticky

in the stem of a pipe

that puts out smoke

keep me alive

these nicotine evenings

and milling and churning

and burning my grist

..the gist of my eyes

which laugh light with my lover’s

in giving the moment its day and its pill

in order to swallow with gentle discerning

instead of burning

in Hell

for some crazy joke...!


Why God Is Really A Woman

Technologies of Sunday Night

Visions made of this....Jesus of the risen Christ handing me his lightening outside

...a wicked Judas kiss

...the thrust of nails...the rain of tide

whose passion turns the ghost to meat

and makes the night electric

in its shivers and its heat

...and its air-cooled computer screen.

Flickering the art of Rachel’s light

...poems from my lover’s art

lifted up to drink and eat.

Thorns upon the riven heart

much like graphics in the dark

Sacramental storm of me!...holy and obscene

...naked image in the night

where lovers wash each other’s feet

in learning what the visions mean.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Wishing For This Less Than Nothing

Being a broken soul,

crushed diamond coal,

baffled moth

whose instincts find the fire they fail

with vanquished wings

...for a certain kind

of an extremely cowardly


hung up on those woven strings

of some spider-cheap guitar

whose symphony

is normally

nervous self pity

...welcome me

oh lucky star!

the one in a million

chance to wreak your wrath

on someone

vulnerable enough

to be clam belly tepid

when such smoky faggot eyes demure

taking full advantage

of a friend, a child....a lurid valentine.


I wish I made you throw up!

in that vomitory spell

as sick as you have brought my angel’s dance 66

Why God Is Really A Woman

to the mirror of your hell

in all such luckless fate

where I listen to the music

the sick atonal music

of the party you prepare

in your head that isn’t there

in your narcissistic cup

where you prove that you deserve

the way you ended up

just as a miracle, by chance,

causes me to disappear

and the knife comes cold and late

with the sheer shock of its cure

and you see your face, not mine

fade into the cold night air

while you choke on queer.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


The City Of The Hypocrites

Temerity and itch!

bald-faced moral insult

and ambivalent sighs

where the president’s people

yawn to tears and scratch

their eyes.

We!, the chosen!

in the land

that never dies....


Why God Is Really A Woman

The Things We Love And Kill

When April light is full of Springtime fire to drink the essence of all grief

the soldiers from the fort nearby

in trying to remit that breath

that ceased its hallowed motion

in the cold emotion made for death

having gone out and returned

in ghostly ships the captain burned

gather in the old downtown

in poetry cafes around

scribbling letters in a sigh

...ah, fire in the ancient air!

both green with Spring

and dense with blood

whose war feet

sully soles with mud

causing the soul to laugh and cry

in madness!...ah the deep despair

when fire turns the ancient leaf!

...such is the nature of desire.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Please Unlearn This Ugly Secret

Remember, if you will,

to forget this ugly fact!

Early April!...the chill

seeping into ache

with which young gods are crucified

by publicans and priests

and soldiers who must kill

the song which they partake;

adventure and its pride

in that solitary act

of the empire and its will!

The Republic which has lied

with the venom of a snake

and gorges like a pig

on the entrails of such beasts the newspapers whitewashed

and all the story books denied.

Come see the traitor on his cross!

Come see the victory which is Rome

and the loser and his loss

...then get you, pilgrim, home...!


Why God Is Really A Woman

Magdalene Knows What Art Is

Only a gifted painter like yourself

whose mind recalls

when March forgets

the abstract

of a rainy winter day

...oh sleepy winter songbird!,

oh tired Christmas elf!

...the season sings; the season falls!

The washing rain commingles

with the blood

in all regrets

bespeaking in a miracle, April,

as the heal of this,

in endless winter gray

...a tired winter kiss

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


The Only Truth Within Your News

was reclining in my chair

to breathe the sullen frosty air

of morning

traffic passing there

and giving light

and giving sound

to God and nature

and the streets, where multitudes

of souls abound

within you, city, where I sigh

at such an age

the morning greets

that sentiment within its truths

attempting to resolve the ghost

and sin

where tired men look within

....tired men look within, and I

would gladly look within as well,

except, that as I start to die

your streets are echoing with your news

...your news is always one big lie

whose only truth

is Hell.


Why God Is Really A Woman

Another Point Of View

During your presidential

or any American debate

my soul is the size of an electron darts between the quantum context

of your box of lies dances through the big TV

and dies toward its pure energy

in waves of light.

Because you have a need to argue

...not the least need for the truth.

Of late electric knowledge flies

well beyond the games and folly

of your political

and existential


Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Turning Away From Our Freedom

As offspring of this silence

...this sphincter wrapped around

its violence

and this cock

that crows

in weary throws

the peace we find in war,

Somewhere in cyberspace

a rock and roll subversion

streams and beams conversion

toward the corpses of the living dead.

Well within their wombs

...their midnight murmured tombs

...their flickering perversion

of lifeless eyes

gone red.

If bleeding Jesus rocks the ceiling

I have a fallen feeling

in my own retreat

toward bats and midnight blood

that longs for more.


Why God Is Really A Woman

If God’s kingdom is this city

...this passion without pity!

...this blind assumption

of the hooded self

to set the same self free?

But then, who knows why spirit eats us?

...why the love inside us beats us?


the prince of peace is equally

the offspring of a whore.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


The Rome Of The Church And The Rome Of America

Where wine is offered to the lips

and all of the seed of meaning

comes and drips

unto its daily bread

and daily cleaning

where riches bought their meat.

...The Rome of the church

offers broken terms of embrace

in those apologies

of sickened love and lace

and those strange places

filled with a celibate world

whose torment


the other side of Hell.

...The Rome of America

...of the protestant pagan green

and moneyed leach on blood from the planet’s poor

...and whose door and hinge

and cinema and sex

of techno worldly speech

lives and loves

in a pork and bacon binge


knife to a knife

and sin to a sin

its gluttonous greedy life


Why God Is Really A Woman

Tyrannosaurus Rex

and Peter Pan

...such a bitter bride

whose child-like spouse

can only guess

the meaning and the spell

cast in that abyss

of worldly

and of other worldly life

where drunkards sing

and angels piss...

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Winter Unto Winter

These cold and motley days...they end me!

Snot and scratch and shivers

in the lonely lurid Christian soul.

Oh harvest rat! Oh gutter gods!

with your livid ways befriend me!

Offer me the beer on tap!

Tell me my art is full of crap

and mortal ruin

sits in the lap

of those who would extract

their strange religion from a hole!

And I’ll go home and cough and choke

through laudanum and crazy smoke

and turn the TV in the cellar on

toward droning dreamy images

which mingle with the night.

And winter unto winter

against the spring of murdered youth

just to beg some spark from passing fire

and tend the small game of desire

with its self same lonely song

I give the words I give the world

that wooden cross!, that splinter!,

that post and lintel

much akin to truth

except that we can hang our hats

each night.


Why God Is Really A Woman

A Child In The Wilderness

Everything is sick!

Everything’s a fever, venomous

and angry

like a snake

beaten by a stick

until the cold desire is flushed

and such tears as are still left

sooth the tired ache.

The fools all talk of sex

...everyone around me!

...but sex and anger do not mix!

...fear and anger are their own reward

whose payment

is a lot like Hell

when Hell forgets its tricks

and Hell’s tricks are all forgotten

in such an angry tear

meant for the pathways

...of the Lord.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Fayetteville As Medusa

Sick as snakes!, this soldier city

where the dead amble

in trauma and aftermath

afraid of the wrath

of a shield

and its mirror.

Oh lonely, ugly, terror!


Why God Is Really A Woman

Meaning Just Short Of Your Average Six Pack

My aches are smeared and pink-eye tired

like special nights on Saturdays

...the itch, unscratched!

...the gun, unfired!

...the man, half drunk and half awake

has been removed from the trailer park

which sleeps by an artificial lake that I, in the crime of my dark ways, have failed the system that they make

whose promise brings the blind mistake

of being born

or being sired

and left forlorn

with aching dreams and dreamless itch

...yet being without rancor

for the dog and bitch

of even for the dog, the bitch forgot

like some unwanted thorn.

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


Fearing That Prayers Have Succumbed To Nicotine

The problem is

that I am screwy

and angry

and lazy

and paranoid frightened

of the ton of wrath

belonging to a Protestant God

who is likely easily

just as crazy

and terrible

in that strangely amoral path

which comes

with that terrible cold

in a town

and a city

and nation

whose sickness and sin


replaces both free will and fate

as the crown of creation


Why God Is Really A Woman

unlike the snuff in my puff

or the chewing tobacco I ate

all green and chewy

or rather unlike the arrogant cigar

and even the smoother stuff

of cigarettes

that help the self

to forget the self

in eternities of TV

while the channels change

and the hole

in the head resurrects

the beast which is me

and is yet not me

in a wickedness bright as coal

come to cry out in flames

like a dog and his mange

or a cat with his mole

or looking up to heaven

through the smoke

from the pit of this world

falling short of the number seven

....a falling star

descending like tears

from the ash of a soul

that wished to be...

Rachel Poems and Others by Sam Silva


The Woman Who Belonged on Top

There were of course my idiot charms

in any season

of the fool’s incessant Spring and form

whose pigeon poses as a dove

because of the religion of

such fashion...because the church of this is dumb and the sex of other things is numb