The Baptist Speaks from the River

You have been given authority:
To heal,
To bless,
To forgive.

The blood clots torn skin.
The lungs cough up phlegm.
The fever kills invasion
And the kidneys filter it out.
Shall we wait for the trumpet blast?
Shall men on horses do the work?
On whose authority shall we do good
Today?

I've felt the warmth of the sun on my face,
A gentle breeze as it passes through open window,
The singing of robins and cardinals,
The katydid chirping art the full moon,
And the roaring of the Niagara River as it falls.
Shall we, human, wait for permission to move hearts, too?
Shall we dam the floods
And stay dry above the levees?

The tiger maws the fawn.
The silent striped bass has no mercy upon a vigilant frog.
The tree snake will not pass by fledglings without feasting.
Let us fall from our nests!
Let us drown in the lakes!
Let us strangle ourselves in vines
That hang from the canopy!

On whose authority shall we drop our swords?
On whose authority shall we sit in peace upon the holy mountain?
On whose authority shall we escape the jaws of death?

Let us wait for a sign
As crocodiles walk the muddy floor
Beneath our sinking feet.

Psalm 133

Beside the high pass of the Rocky road,
From slumber waking I stepped out to stand
Upon the highest place I've ever stood
Above the rim where ocean touches sand.

You stood, my brother, lost in beauty's gaze
A yard away as slumber from me passed.
Your narrowed eyes did witness granite raised
Along the boundary line of snow and grass.

Are brothers three in unity with me
In darkened slopes along this Valley's floor
As they were when we breathed Mt. Zion's wind?

What left is there to offer unto thee
Who stood with me before Mt. Hermon's door,
But Grace to you from Heaven sent from God?

Ode to Spring at Sunrise, March 16, 2015

I'll make of this day an idea,
And carry it all in my head,
To keep it alive in the future,
And live with it until I'm dead.

The birds are all singing for springtime,
Announcing the warm rising sun,
To dance through the azure blue welkin,
And set in the pink when it's done.

Oh, God! Is that bird sweetly singing?
Has the icy cold winter blast passed?
Will the gentle day last slightly longer
After the gentle day's past?

I'll catch up this day in a poem,
Like a bird in a living room caged.
I'll store it in pints in the cellar,
When next winter's cold blizzards rage.

The crescent moon morning is fifty.
The afternoon sun seventy-three.
The sun will arise in an hour
And pour out its blessings on me.

I'll breathe in the breezes of springtime
And feel the warm sun on my face.
I'll dance to the songs of the robins
And thank the Lord for heaven's grace

That breaks the hard sod of the winter
And softens the ground's frozen stone
To resurrect lilies in springtime
And fill the air with sweet cologne.

I'll mourn now the passing of winter,
I'll cry for the passing of death.
With folded hands silently whisper
A yizkor at winter's last breath.

But, oh! At the breaking of morning,
Now at the rising of sun,
I'll put off this poem till later
And sing at the breaking of dawn

With birds that are calling out, "Springtime!"
As I watch the sun rise o'er the east,
And store this idea in this poem,
To save for a winter's day feast.

When death's icy cold fingers catch me,
And hold me in winter's strong grasp,
I'll remember the dawn of this moment
And remember that sorrow can't last.

The dawn is now calling me, reader.
Now! the rising of sun! I can't stay!
Just remember in coldest dark winter,
There will come todays like today.

Rebirth

The miracle is that you lived without choosing it,
And that the same force that f***ed you into existence

Will last much longer than your memory,

Or the memory of you.

Philosophy of the Malcontented Flower

There once was a flower,
Born on summer morning,
Opening its eyes to wet dew
That fell upon parched dry ground.

"Now," the flower said,
"This is no good at all
"I should not like to remain here, in this place until the morning."

As the sun rose higher in the sky,
The flower took inventory of its situation:
Roots in clay,
Vine drawing moisture from rock,
Sun warming its broad face,
Insects tickling its pistil and stamen.

And within:

Desire to transform
Into fruit
Eaten by animal
And shat into greener pasture

Again.

Let There Be

The life I've lived to now is not my life,
Although for forty years I thought it was.
The past is riddled with anguish and strife.
The future, though, looks better now because
I'm letting go of what I thought I had,
And letting go of what I think I want,
Accepting that intentions make me sad,
And unfulfilled desires only haunt
My nowness. So, I'm starting to let go
Of any future path I thought I'd take,
And living in the present now instead.
Though dreams of later dance inside my head,
Yes, living in the past is a mistake:
I've learned that that now is all there is to know.

Forgive Them

The last words
OF

a dying

Christ.