For John Reeves
To share a bed,
Or to share a bedroom.
Such is the wordplay
Of camaraderie.
Like reverie,
In sleeping,
Or not sleeping,
While doing things in bed together.
Who knows, John,
Besides you, and Talia,
And me,
That you listened from the other room?
I wonder,
How many other rooms
Have there been,
How many beds unshared?
Why did you not enter that room,
Comrade?
What other ugliness
Will you not speak?
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 24, 2018
Thursday, March 22, 2018
The Garden Entrusted to Us
For Leslie Talia
I am still here, as Earth tilts its head toward the sun. The daffodils came first along the shores of this lake, filled with the spirit of all lakes, where we do not imagine that water prefers one ground to another. Where water falls, life sprouts upward from death: daffodil, dandelion, honeysuckle, all fragrant.
There is no mystery on these shores, no ghost trapped in the blue mud. A quiet cottage. Peaceful neighbors. Farmers tilling the winter soil.
In stillness Borah is a mirror for the bare trees, brown and naked. Above the branches, white fades into blue as the shadows of blackwinged birds slice through the colors, separating what we think is white from what we think is blue. They might have flown higher in the sky, but they did not.
Can a farmer pray for rain? He does. But the rain giver may not give to him more freely than he does the poet, or the thief.
I have read of honeysuckle and willow trees, and what should I imagine? That they have been drawn up from the ground, called forth by water and light, to perfume the breeze, to sway their limbs gently like hair that cascades from the crown of your mind?
A heron swooped to eat a fish beneath the glassy lake, and for a moment the water walker tucked its stick legs beneath its body, ducklike, floating like a goose with a long neck and sharp beak. It was something to see, a hawk pretending to be a swan.
What mysteries do we imagine at the bottom of that lake? A coffee mug filled with baby's milk? A red wig? The leprosy of Naaman washed away?
I'll tell you what it is: It is water. Above, birds and trees. Below, fish and turtles.
But these daffodils. What can we do to stop them from growing? This honeysuckle. Why should we uproot it?
Let me tell you what I see, Talia. I see you emerging from the honeysuckle. I smell you in our bedsheets and pillows. Your bud blooms in winter. Your hair grows thick even in frost. For the rain of the spirit is love, and I have rain to give. I will water my garden, not pretending that my neighbor's wife has been entrusted to me, or John, or Bradley.
Your bloom will grow in my garden, and every other rose will be a weed.
I am still here, as Earth tilts its head toward the sun. The daffodils came first along the shores of this lake, filled with the spirit of all lakes, where we do not imagine that water prefers one ground to another. Where water falls, life sprouts upward from death: daffodil, dandelion, honeysuckle, all fragrant.
There is no mystery on these shores, no ghost trapped in the blue mud. A quiet cottage. Peaceful neighbors. Farmers tilling the winter soil.
In stillness Borah is a mirror for the bare trees, brown and naked. Above the branches, white fades into blue as the shadows of blackwinged birds slice through the colors, separating what we think is white from what we think is blue. They might have flown higher in the sky, but they did not.
Can a farmer pray for rain? He does. But the rain giver may not give to him more freely than he does the poet, or the thief.
I have read of honeysuckle and willow trees, and what should I imagine? That they have been drawn up from the ground, called forth by water and light, to perfume the breeze, to sway their limbs gently like hair that cascades from the crown of your mind?
A heron swooped to eat a fish beneath the glassy lake, and for a moment the water walker tucked its stick legs beneath its body, ducklike, floating like a goose with a long neck and sharp beak. It was something to see, a hawk pretending to be a swan.
What mysteries do we imagine at the bottom of that lake? A coffee mug filled with baby's milk? A red wig? The leprosy of Naaman washed away?
I'll tell you what it is: It is water. Above, birds and trees. Below, fish and turtles.
But these daffodils. What can we do to stop them from growing? This honeysuckle. Why should we uproot it?
Let me tell you what I see, Talia. I see you emerging from the honeysuckle. I smell you in our bedsheets and pillows. Your bud blooms in winter. Your hair grows thick even in frost. For the rain of the spirit is love, and I have rain to give. I will water my garden, not pretending that my neighbor's wife has been entrusted to me, or John, or Bradley.
Your bloom will grow in my garden, and every other rose will be a weed.
Saturday, March 10, 2018
A Beautiful Day
I will tell you it as I remember it:
We took you from the hospital door,
Swaddled in a baby carrier lined with denim,
It was warm, for March,
As we placed you in the back seat of my brother's grey Honda Civic,
Manual transmission, 1988.
There was a CD in the stereo,
And when I turned the key,
Grey smoke spurting from the tailpipe,
A song began to play:
The heart is a bloom
Shoots up through the stony ground . . .
What more do I remember?
Your smallness.
Your newness.
My inadequacy.
You are not as small now,
Nor as new
(But not as old as you think, nor me).
I wish you could feel
My sorrow:
You might accept
My love.
We had painted for you a blue crib
With white clouds.
There were spiders in the farmhouse,
And I am sorry I did not know how to be a father to a baby girl,
A day old, or 17.
I tried as only I knew
On that day, and this.
We took you from the hospital door,
Swaddled in a baby carrier lined with denim,
It was warm, for March,
As we placed you in the back seat of my brother's grey Honda Civic,
Manual transmission, 1988.
There was a CD in the stereo,
And when I turned the key,
Grey smoke spurting from the tailpipe,
A song began to play:
The heart is a bloom
Shoots up through the stony ground . . .
What more do I remember?
Your smallness.
Your newness.
My inadequacy.
You are not as small now,
Nor as new
(But not as old as you think, nor me).
I wish you could feel
My sorrow:
You might accept
My love.
We had painted for you a blue crib
With white clouds.
There were spiders in the farmhouse,
And I am sorry I did not know how to be a father to a baby girl,
A day old, or 17.
I tried as only I knew
On that day, and this.
Tuesday, March 6, 2018
Children of God
Like a boy in a henhouse,
Is his son,
Cradling fifteen warm eggs in his arms,
Treasure laden.
Like a girl picking dandelions,
Is his daughter,
Baking mud pies in the sunlight,
Yellow-necked with perfume.
His voice calls from Zion
Let it be so:
For queens wail in sorrow,
As pharaohs drown.
Is his son,
Cradling fifteen warm eggs in his arms,
Treasure laden.
Like a girl picking dandelions,
Is his daughter,
Baking mud pies in the sunlight,
Yellow-necked with perfume.
His voice calls from Zion
Let it be so:
For queens wail in sorrow,
As pharaohs drown.
Thursday, March 1, 2018
Monday Anniversaries
The earth rolls around the sun,
Like a ball, spinning as it orbits.
One waltz around the heavenly light
Is called an anniversary,
A turning of a year.
But I wonder:
When did the whirl begin?
Where did the earth first stand
When mesmerized by the gravity of the sun
It danced about its orbit the first time?
When does a year begin, love,
And when does it end?
Is it meted out in the times you dance before me,
365 pirouettes in my presence?
Or is it when we return to the place we first held each other?
One year, you begin to turn from me,
The next, you face away.
The third, I see you turning back again,
And the fourth, we stand as we started,
Face to face, still rejoicing.
We all should be married in leap years
To remind ourselves that love is much more complicated
Than an anniversary,
And we lie to ourselves to pretend that we were married on a Saturday
When all who were there remember:
It was a Monday.
Like a ball, spinning as it orbits.
One waltz around the heavenly light
Is called an anniversary,
A turning of a year.
But I wonder:
When did the whirl begin?
Where did the earth first stand
When mesmerized by the gravity of the sun
It danced about its orbit the first time?
When does a year begin, love,
And when does it end?
Is it meted out in the times you dance before me,
365 pirouettes in my presence?
Or is it when we return to the place we first held each other?
One year, you begin to turn from me,
The next, you face away.
The third, I see you turning back again,
And the fourth, we stand as we started,
Face to face, still rejoicing.
We all should be married in leap years
To remind ourselves that love is much more complicated
Than an anniversary,
And we lie to ourselves to pretend that we were married on a Saturday
When all who were there remember:
It was a Monday.
Monday, February 26, 2018
Drowning Girl
If I'd been a better swimmer
When the flood passed o'er my head,
And the torrents tossed above me
As I sank down with the dead,
I'd have never needed rescued
By a swimmer strong as you,
Who has swum in deeper water
Than have I attempted to,
For I knew I was a goner
When I started first to sink,
But I never knew the water went
Much deeper than I think.
For in drowning there's no bottom,
But the deeper deeper goes,
The abyss has room for more descent,
And it's bottom no one knows
But you. You touched the bottom,
Before you rose again.
You reached me near the middle still
With half left to ascend,
But with no breath left to succor,
And with no life left to live,
There in the belly of that lake
You had one thing to give:
Your hand, though you were dying,
Knew that I was dying, too,
And to die is better, hand in hand,
Than it all alone is to.
And there we died together,
In the middle of the sea
Where the poets go to die alone,
But find those there who still be.
When the flood passed o'er my head,
And the torrents tossed above me
As I sank down with the dead,
I'd have never needed rescued
By a swimmer strong as you,
Who has swum in deeper water
Than have I attempted to,
For I knew I was a goner
When I started first to sink,
But I never knew the water went
Much deeper than I think.
For in drowning there's no bottom,
But the deeper deeper goes,
The abyss has room for more descent,
And it's bottom no one knows
But you. You touched the bottom,
Before you rose again.
You reached me near the middle still
With half left to ascend,
But with no breath left to succor,
And with no life left to live,
There in the belly of that lake
You had one thing to give:
Your hand, though you were dying,
Knew that I was dying, too,
And to die is better, hand in hand,
Than it all alone is to.
And there we died together,
In the middle of the sea
Where the poets go to die alone,
But find those there who still be.
Friday, February 23, 2018
Sangre
Don't tell me I have control over this feeling in my chest.
I'll change my thinking,
Like Siddhartha,
Not wanting you ever again,
Or at least not now,
And never suffering for not
Watching your face,
The parting of your lips,
The breathing through open mouth,
Eyes either asleep or in pain,
Or both,
Half-closed,
Unmooring,
Looking at me,
Hands on my chest,
Crotch on my crotch,
Like basil and oregano,
Cinnamon and nutmeg,
Coriander and thyme.
No, not wanting that,
Cuz I'm not having that.
Instead, I'm just
Writing you a sad and angry poem,
And missing you to sleep.
There, I did it.
I thought about something else,
And remembered it instead of wanting it.
And I have to admit:
It helped,
But just a little.
It's better when it's on the skin,
When the breath is in the lungs,
The salt on the tongue,
And not in
A poem,
A dream,
Or worse,
A memory.
I'll change my thinking,
Like Siddhartha,
Not wanting you ever again,
Or at least not now,
And never suffering for not
Watching your face,
The parting of your lips,
The breathing through open mouth,
Eyes either asleep or in pain,
Or both,
Half-closed,
Unmooring,
Looking at me,
Hands on my chest,
Crotch on my crotch,
Like basil and oregano,
Cinnamon and nutmeg,
Coriander and thyme.
No, not wanting that,
Cuz I'm not having that.
Instead, I'm just
Writing you a sad and angry poem,
And missing you to sleep.
There, I did it.
I thought about something else,
And remembered it instead of wanting it.
And I have to admit:
It helped,
But just a little.
It's better when it's on the skin,
When the breath is in the lungs,
The salt on the tongue,
And not in
A poem,
A dream,
Or worse,
A memory.
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
Husbandry
Make me, O Lord, a Part of Her compleate.
To see Her Body as my own, I pray.
For Her to Me a match was ne'er more meet,
Nor Dusk and Dawn did make a fuller Day.
Our Conversation make to be as One,
Then add to Us the glory of your Son.
Make me Her Foot that I might bear her load,
Her Back that I may stand her gait upright,
Her Heart that I resist what fears forebode,
Her Eyes that I bring Light to darkest night,
For these all She to me already brings,
And from these lungs of mine Her Beauty sings.
Then Cloathe our loins enjoined with girdled waist,
United both in Spirit and in Flesh.
In Holy Matrimony sealed by Grace,
And in Us two may One be formed and Blessed.
Then from this field of Potter's Clay make Bread,
That groweth from where Ash and Dust are wed.
To see Her Body as my own, I pray.
For Her to Me a match was ne'er more meet,
Nor Dusk and Dawn did make a fuller Day.
Our Conversation make to be as One,
Then add to Us the glory of your Son.
Make me Her Foot that I might bear her load,
Her Back that I may stand her gait upright,
Her Heart that I resist what fears forebode,
Her Eyes that I bring Light to darkest night,
For these all She to me already brings,
And from these lungs of mine Her Beauty sings.
Then Cloathe our loins enjoined with girdled waist,
United both in Spirit and in Flesh.
In Holy Matrimony sealed by Grace,
And in Us two may One be formed and Blessed.
Then from this field of Potter's Clay make Bread,
That groweth from where Ash and Dust are wed.
Saturday, December 23, 2017
Athenian Hymn
So since we are God's offspring, we ought not
Consider that he from us is offsprung
In works of gold or bronze which we have wrought
Or contemplative hymns by poets sung.
For ignorance of man he overlooks
Until a time appointed to repent,
When all mankind be judged for all his works
By one that he hath chosen to appoint,
And proof to us that he who has been giv'n
Authority to judge those he gives breath
By spirit that descends on us from heaven
To send us each by each toward life or death
Is this: that he to death did once submit,
But conquered it not he: he conquered it.
Acts 17
Consider that he from us is offsprung
In works of gold or bronze which we have wrought
Or contemplative hymns by poets sung.
For ignorance of man he overlooks
Until a time appointed to repent,
When all mankind be judged for all his works
By one that he hath chosen to appoint,
And proof to us that he who has been giv'n
Authority to judge those he gives breath
By spirit that descends on us from heaven
To send us each by each toward life or death
Is this: that he to death did once submit,
But conquered it not he: he conquered it.
Acts 17
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
Law, Fulfilled
To sip upon His judgments
And not expect to die,
Though losing win with medicine
That kills all sin in I.
To drink a draught of liquor
That swoons the sordid flesh,
And fall asleep beneath death's keep,
A covenant made fresh.
To swallow up God's mercy
Within a cup of wrath,
And fear no more what lies in store
But dance on Spirit's path.
To taste a sponge of poison
And go weak at the knees,
Then wake in Hell and there go tell
The captives they be free.
To pour wine with Elijah,
Before the throne of grace,
There with my Lord, his blood outpoured,
And look upon the face
Of God, Lord of Creation,
Of God, Ancient of Days
Of God with Us, Alive in Us
Of God, His Name be praised!
And not expect to die,
Though losing win with medicine
That kills all sin in I.
To drink a draught of liquor
That swoons the sordid flesh,
And fall asleep beneath death's keep,
A covenant made fresh.
To swallow up God's mercy
Within a cup of wrath,
And fear no more what lies in store
But dance on Spirit's path.
To taste a sponge of poison
And go weak at the knees,
Then wake in Hell and there go tell
The captives they be free.
To pour wine with Elijah,
Before the throne of grace,
There with my Lord, his blood outpoured,
And look upon the face
Of God, Lord of Creation,
Of God, Ancient of Days
Of God with Us, Alive in Us
Of God, His Name be praised!
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
III Peter
I, Simon Peter, the rock upon which Jesus Christ, the Son of God has built His assembly,
Write these words:
Noah, Job, and Dan'El, who have fallen asleep, await the judgment,
To be awakened by the Word of God,
Who calls them from the grave,
In majestic declaration:
"Rise up and walk!"
The memory of these things that was placed within you,
Like a Sower who scatters the Word of God,
That grows in the well-tilled hearts of the Sons of Man,
Declare these things to you:
Depart from the lusts of the flesh,
Depart from the wickedness of sin,
Depart from the received texts,
And enter the Kingdom of the Living God,
Who reaps where He has not sown
And gathers where He has not planted,
Who calls forth from water, earth,
Who calls forth from heaven, fire,
Who calls forth from death, life,
Who calls forth from darkness, light.
I, Simon Peter, who write these words to you with my own hands,
Declare unto you:
I have seen the Lord,
Upon His holy mountain,
With Moses at His right hand,
With Elijah at His left hand,
And with Peter, James, and John still dwelling in tents,
To offer sacrifices to the Living God.
What sacrifice can be offered to Holiness but holiness?
What partaking in the Living Word can be partaken but the word of our testimony,
Which is true?
Out, scribes!
Out, pharisees!
Out, lawyers!
The testimony of the Spirit is the Spirit,
Who testifies in five loaves of bread:
The Witness of the Self.
The Witness of the Prophet.
The Witness of the Father.
The Witness of the Works.
The Witness of the Scripture.
Who is this Jesus, but He who sets man free from bondage?
Who is this Christ, but He who indwells you now?
Let Peter testify to Jesus,
And Peter is not Peter,
But a Rock,
Not Simon,
Nor the scribe,
But the Word of God,
Who brought forth dry ground from water,
And established upon it,
A sacrifice to be consumed
Before the priests of Baal.
Write these words:
Noah, Job, and Dan'El, who have fallen asleep, await the judgment,
To be awakened by the Word of God,
Who calls them from the grave,
In majestic declaration:
"Rise up and walk!"
The memory of these things that was placed within you,
Like a Sower who scatters the Word of God,
That grows in the well-tilled hearts of the Sons of Man,
Declare these things to you:
Depart from the lusts of the flesh,
Depart from the wickedness of sin,
Depart from the received texts,
And enter the Kingdom of the Living God,
Who reaps where He has not sown
And gathers where He has not planted,
Who calls forth from water, earth,
Who calls forth from heaven, fire,
Who calls forth from death, life,
Who calls forth from darkness, light.
I, Simon Peter, who write these words to you with my own hands,
Declare unto you:
I have seen the Lord,
Upon His holy mountain,
With Moses at His right hand,
With Elijah at His left hand,
And with Peter, James, and John still dwelling in tents,
To offer sacrifices to the Living God.
What sacrifice can be offered to Holiness but holiness?
What partaking in the Living Word can be partaken but the word of our testimony,
Which is true?
Out, scribes!
Out, pharisees!
Out, lawyers!
The testimony of the Spirit is the Spirit,
Who testifies in five loaves of bread:
The Witness of the Self.
The Witness of the Prophet.
The Witness of the Father.
The Witness of the Works.
The Witness of the Scripture.
Who is this Jesus, but He who sets man free from bondage?
Who is this Christ, but He who indwells you now?
Let Peter testify to Jesus,
And Peter is not Peter,
But a Rock,
Not Simon,
Nor the scribe,
But the Word of God,
Who brought forth dry ground from water,
And established upon it,
A sacrifice to be consumed
Before the priests of Baal.
Sunday, May 14, 2017
Mother's Day
Consider who has placed a seed in you,
Who brings forth what He has in mind to do.
A mother is no more than flesh and blood
Surrendered to the mighty will of God.
What did you do, except receive a seed,
And wait for it to grow, and then to bleed?
Then cursed the Lord for what He caused to grow
By power you will never see nor know.
"Aha! Look on the mighty work I've done!"
"For from my womb has come a one from none!"
Oh foolish harlot, on your dragon ride
Unto your death, for God has been denied!
For He is who has caused in you to grow
From holy seed above on earth below,
And breathed into your womb a living breath,
That lives with neither care nor fear of death.
But you, who bask in glory of this day,
Receive your mother's prize, then fade away.
For less you must become and greater He,
Who in you life has formed and caused to be.
Who brings forth what He has in mind to do.
A mother is no more than flesh and blood
Surrendered to the mighty will of God.
What did you do, except receive a seed,
And wait for it to grow, and then to bleed?
Then cursed the Lord for what He caused to grow
By power you will never see nor know.
"Aha! Look on the mighty work I've done!"
"For from my womb has come a one from none!"
Oh foolish harlot, on your dragon ride
Unto your death, for God has been denied!
For He is who has caused in you to grow
From holy seed above on earth below,
And breathed into your womb a living breath,
That lives with neither care nor fear of death.
But you, who bask in glory of this day,
Receive your mother's prize, then fade away.
For less you must become and greater He,
Who in you life has formed and caused to be.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
The Groomsman's Day of Rest
Song of Solomon 8:11-12
Give me but two hundred,
Leave the rest untouched.
Let me tend the field He's sown,
And He will gather much.
He asks five times your offering
That you have shared with me,
A sixth of all he grows in you,
And all the rest for He.
I stand here but a groomsman,
To veil the wedded bride,
To cover what belongs to Him,
Until his coach arrives.
He'll have His own one thousand
From one He sowed in you.
For now, I stand a watchman
Till what He'll do He'll do.
He offers me two hundred
To see His harvest grow,
But on the day He comes for pay,
I'll have to let you go.
For He demands one thousand,
Of what He's caused to be,
So what is thine, is His, not mine,
One-sixth is all for me.
You are a seed He planted,
And all the seed is His,
But He is good, and for this would
He share with me His bliss.
But only two from dozen
The fruit of you is mine.
The other ten belong to him,
For He is only thine.
And what am I, your husband?
And what are you, my wife?
One sixth of me belongs to thee
Together in this life.
But more in me He's planted,
Than you can ever eat,
So give to Him your rest and then
Be in His holy peace.
For we will both be married
Unto the Holy Groom,
And all our love will rise above,
Into His sacred room.
Where He will taste your honey,
And drink upon your wine,
And take his fill of breastmilk,
That he has let be mine.
One sixth is all He gives me.
One sixth is all we share.
The rest will go to Heaven,
For your Groom tarries there.
Give me but two hundred,
Leave the rest untouched.
Let me tend the field He's sown,
And He will gather much.
He asks five times your offering
That you have shared with me,
A sixth of all he grows in you,
And all the rest for He.
I stand here but a groomsman,
To veil the wedded bride,
To cover what belongs to Him,
Until his coach arrives.
He'll have His own one thousand
From one He sowed in you.
For now, I stand a watchman
Till what He'll do He'll do.
He offers me two hundred
To see His harvest grow,
But on the day He comes for pay,
I'll have to let you go.
For He demands one thousand,
Of what He's caused to be,
So what is thine, is His, not mine,
One-sixth is all for me.
You are a seed He planted,
And all the seed is His,
But He is good, and for this would
He share with me His bliss.
But only two from dozen
The fruit of you is mine.
The other ten belong to him,
For He is only thine.
And what am I, your husband?
And what are you, my wife?
One sixth of me belongs to thee
Together in this life.
But more in me He's planted,
Than you can ever eat,
So give to Him your rest and then
Be in His holy peace.
For we will both be married
Unto the Holy Groom,
And all our love will rise above,
Into His sacred room.
Where He will taste your honey,
And drink upon your wine,
And take his fill of breastmilk,
That he has let be mine.
One sixth is all He gives me.
One sixth is all we share.
The rest will go to Heaven,
For your Groom tarries there.
Love-Sex Confusion
At the end of the weary road,
The Ancient Sphinx asked the weary traveler:
"How is a child made?"
Dry-throated, weak-kneed,
The tired traveler replied:
"By sex."
A hole opened in the sand,
And the hourglass of eternity
Swallowed the sun-scorched fool.
At the end of the desert path,
The Ancient Sphinx asked the weary traveler:
"How is a child made?"
Blistered and star-spotted,
The weathered walker replied:
"By love."
A hole opened in the sand,
And the shifty sea of time
Consumed the half-born wit.
At the end of the winding world,
The Ancient Sphinx asked the weary traveler:
"How is a child made?"
Throat slaked wet with wisdom,
The patient pilgrim replied:
"By God."
And the stone stood silent.
The Ancient Sphinx asked the weary traveler:
"How is a child made?"
Dry-throated, weak-kneed,
The tired traveler replied:
"By sex."
A hole opened in the sand,
And the hourglass of eternity
Swallowed the sun-scorched fool.
At the end of the desert path,
The Ancient Sphinx asked the weary traveler:
"How is a child made?"
Blistered and star-spotted,
The weathered walker replied:
"By love."
A hole opened in the sand,
And the shifty sea of time
Consumed the half-born wit.
At the end of the winding world,
The Ancient Sphinx asked the weary traveler:
"How is a child made?"
Throat slaked wet with wisdom,
The patient pilgrim replied:
"By God."
And the stone stood silent.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
The Chosens' Curse
Be thankful now for Judas,
For love who's been betrayed
Is better than a love that grows
In full light, free from shade.
Be thankful now for Peter,
For love who's been denied,
Is better than a love whose kiss
Has never suffered lies.
Be thankful now for Thomas,
For love who has been doubted
Is better than a love secured
By protestations shouted.
Be thankful now for Phillip,
For love unrecognized
Is better than a love who we
See only with our eyes.
Be thankful for betrayal,
And for for denials, too.
Be thankful for the ways that they
Have hurt love before you.
Be thankful for their doubting
And for their blinded eyes.
Be thankful that love chose them
To see his body rise.
Be thankful to believe it,
If love allows you to,
For if you have believed he did,
Then his love grows in you.
For love who's been betrayed
Is better than a love that grows
In full light, free from shade.
Be thankful now for Peter,
For love who's been denied,
Is better than a love whose kiss
Has never suffered lies.
Be thankful now for Thomas,
For love who has been doubted
Is better than a love secured
By protestations shouted.
Be thankful now for Phillip,
For love unrecognized
Is better than a love who we
See only with our eyes.
Be thankful for betrayal,
And for for denials, too.
Be thankful for the ways that they
Have hurt love before you.
Be thankful for their doubting
And for their blinded eyes.
Be thankful that love chose them
To see his body rise.
Be thankful to believe it,
If love allows you to,
For if you have believed he did,
Then his love grows in you.
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Sanitarium
Oh mother, please don't yell, I tried so hard
To clean this filth myself, but I confess
No skill in keeping private parts unmarred,
And now I feel a shameful, wicked mess!
Fecal matter running down my legs,
Smeared on toilet seat, on walls, on door.
A clog of Charmin tissue stalls the dregs,
And soon a lake of shit will flood the floor!
I'd call for help, I need it, please don't cry!
Nor think to recall offal of your own,
Locked within the closets, bound in furls.
Please don't be angry: Know I tried to try
To clean my private foulness all alone,
And be your perfect, sanitary girl.
To clean this filth myself, but I confess
No skill in keeping private parts unmarred,
And now I feel a shameful, wicked mess!
Fecal matter running down my legs,
Smeared on toilet seat, on walls, on door.
A clog of Charmin tissue stalls the dregs,
And soon a lake of shit will flood the floor!
I'd call for help, I need it, please don't cry!
Nor think to recall offal of your own,
Locked within the closets, bound in furls.
Please don't be angry: Know I tried to try
To clean my private foulness all alone,
And be your perfect, sanitary girl.
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
Productive Conversations
Avez-vous déjà fait attention au rythme d'une phrase écrite en anglais?
Certains s'ennuient et glissent dans des phrases plus longues
Avec des terminaisons beaucoup moins prévisibles.
Ou qui a remarqué le taux de lèvres visibles
Ce mouvement sur des lettres retentissantes,
Qui arrivent dans des accidents parfois
Et à dessein, parfois,
De ta-da-ta-da-ta-da-ta-da-ta-da
Un par un par un?
Il y a tant de mots et tant de positions de la langue sur le papier,
Empilées sur le bûcher funéraire.
Laissez-les brûler.
Quelle fin viendra?
Seul vent et cendres.
Quelle est la différence?
Je ne suis pas Robert Frost,
Mais ce serait bien de passer le temps sans
Préoccupation pour la facture d'électricité,
Il suffit de couser les iambs jusqu'à ce que
Le chemin dans le bois rencontre le bouleau flexible.
Je n'ai aucune raison de ne pas s'asseoir sur le fauteuil,
Crochet aiguille à la main,
Et reposez-vous dans un repos tranquille.
Certains s'ennuient et glissent dans des phrases plus longues
Avec des terminaisons beaucoup moins prévisibles.
Ou qui a remarqué le taux de lèvres visibles
Ce mouvement sur des lettres retentissantes,
Qui arrivent dans des accidents parfois
Et à dessein, parfois,
De ta-da-ta-da-ta-da-ta-da-ta-da
Un par un par un?
Il y a tant de mots et tant de positions de la langue sur le papier,
Empilées sur le bûcher funéraire.
Laissez-les brûler.
Quelle fin viendra?
Seul vent et cendres.
Quelle est la différence?
Je ne suis pas Robert Frost,
Mais ce serait bien de passer le temps sans
Préoccupation pour la facture d'électricité,
Il suffit de couser les iambs jusqu'à ce que
Le chemin dans le bois rencontre le bouleau flexible.
Je n'ai aucune raison de ne pas s'asseoir sur le fauteuil,
Crochet aiguille à la main,
Et reposez-vous dans un repos tranquille.
Saturday, December 17, 2016
Brand of God
If there's a confidence that rises up
Within the heart of he who speaks of truth,
The cause is that the one who has held fast
To what he thinks to know has raised him up
From depths of dungeons where he was enslaved
By forces that unnamed had tied him down
With chains to stones on wet and and icy floors,
Where love could never grow nor faith endure.
What pride now lifts such one to fresher breaths
Where sun can warm the face and and fill the heart
With grace and peace and hope and faith and love?
Tell not this man that God is different from
The one who raised his soul up from the pit,
Nor move the gift of thanks far from his lips.
Within the heart of he who speaks of truth,
The cause is that the one who has held fast
To what he thinks to know has raised him up
From depths of dungeons where he was enslaved
By forces that unnamed had tied him down
With chains to stones on wet and and icy floors,
Where love could never grow nor faith endure.
What pride now lifts such one to fresher breaths
Where sun can warm the face and and fill the heart
With grace and peace and hope and faith and love?
Tell not this man that God is different from
The one who raised his soul up from the pit,
Nor move the gift of thanks far from his lips.
Monday, November 28, 2016
Choice
Life after life,
Death after death,
Blood after blood,
Breath after breath.
Life without death,
Death without life,
Blood without pain,
Breath without strife.
Light after dark,
Dark after light
Life after death,
Death after life.
Choose which you'll have,
Life and death come,
God gives you both:
Let go of one.
Death after death,
Blood after blood,
Breath after breath.
Life without death,
Death without life,
Blood without pain,
Breath without strife.
Light after dark,
Dark after light
Life after death,
Death after life.
Choose which you'll have,
Life and death come,
God gives you both:
Let go of one.
Friday, November 25, 2016
Son of David
Beloved of God, in whom do you trust?
But in He who first loved you, and no other you must.
For the one who loved first will continue through last,
When the love of all others has grown pale as the grass.
O shepherd of lambs, each led safe to the knife
By your rod and your staff at the end of its life.
Drinking wine from the rivers, eating bread from the clay,
Humbly following the shepherd to the end of its day.
How this love and compassion to the pain of death leads,
On a road dark and narrow, where the fainting heart bleeds.
O, Beloved of God, where's this pasture you know,
Where our bleating will cease, where our sorrows will go?
Protect us from wolves, for we weren't made for food
To be given to dogs, or by jackals be chewed.
Guard our haunches from grizzlies, and from lions make way
Toward the wide open pastures, to green fields thick with hay.
Beloved, Good Shepherd, who lays down with his flock,
Your bed with the foxes, your pillow a rock,
Teach us now how to love you, though you lead us to die,
For in living you love us, and love still by the by.
Are we graceless as mutton? Are we no more than food?
Does our skin make your garments? Does our faith change your mood?
Tell me why, goodly shepherd, you have led us through fear,
To the gates of the slaughter, to a bed on a bier.
O, but in love, my good shepherd,
You have taught me to trust,
For in living I've known it,
And what follows, it must.
But in He who first loved you, and no other you must.
For the one who loved first will continue through last,
When the love of all others has grown pale as the grass.
O shepherd of lambs, each led safe to the knife
By your rod and your staff at the end of its life.
Drinking wine from the rivers, eating bread from the clay,
Humbly following the shepherd to the end of its day.
How this love and compassion to the pain of death leads,
On a road dark and narrow, where the fainting heart bleeds.
O, Beloved of God, where's this pasture you know,
Where our bleating will cease, where our sorrows will go?
Protect us from wolves, for we weren't made for food
To be given to dogs, or by jackals be chewed.
Guard our haunches from grizzlies, and from lions make way
Toward the wide open pastures, to green fields thick with hay.
Beloved, Good Shepherd, who lays down with his flock,
Your bed with the foxes, your pillow a rock,
Teach us now how to love you, though you lead us to die,
For in living you love us, and love still by the by.
Are we graceless as mutton? Are we no more than food?
Does our skin make your garments? Does our faith change your mood?
Tell me why, goodly shepherd, you have led us through fear,
To the gates of the slaughter, to a bed on a bier.
O, but in love, my good shepherd,
You have taught me to trust,
For in living I've known it,
And what follows, it must.
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