Contemplation on Waiting

Like something out of Hollywood, I stood
At the door looking into March, a cup
In my hand, a glaze in my tired eyes, my stare
Vacant, wandering. The window would
Not let you, out there somewhere, make it up
On time. I rode the surf to everywhere

That you might be: in prison, or worse dead.
I feel like a mom, wondering from her child
And we are not at all related. We
Are simply similar cogs of similar heads
That think on parallel lines into wild
Untainted places where no eye can see.

Contemplation on Coffee

It’s four A.M. Coffee always starts
This way, the three-legged beast that gallops out
The big red barndoor of the midnight wake
In search of pasture good for food, for art,
For all between, and, finding it’s not about
To blossom into morning, leaves it’s ache

In tired eyes. It’s main mark, it’s dream-
Like machinations, or solvent there unto,
Continues long beyond the pallet’s con-
Sciousness, punctuated by the roaring stream
Of random thoughts that make a passage through
The body till the bladder sends them on.

The Great Divide

What faith can man employ to keep in frame
the things beyond our flesh, the things outside
of time and reason which we can never claim
to circumvent, which can never be denied
by flesh. God, Himself, has built these feet
beneath us, and, with onward-heralding call,
He asks for faith of us, still incomplete,
that stands apart from these. It seems a small
thing for God, who is not marred by out
restrictions, to understand the sweeping span
of time all at once while we yet lack the power
to find, in even this moment, a trace of Your plan.
You who know eternity so well,
remember us, whom time and reason fell.

A Once Perfect Image

By definition flesh is flawed for we
have blemished it, perverted what was made
in God's own theme, what was created to be
perfect. We, in our supreme crusade
to die, have deperfected the divine
reflection that once was cast from heaven's throne
upon the waters below. That decline
of flesh, frail, by nature both eager and prone
to sin, sponge-like in a legionous sea,
the viral host itself of all opposed to God,
God assumed for us, but sinlessly,
blemish unimbibed or fleshly flawed.
For that which is sin's home but not its native,
He, sinless, died that we might, sinful, live.

Of Name Unspeakable

My God of name unspeakable, You are
somehow eternally blood appeased and sac-
rifice saturated though I am far
myself from appeasing and filled the more with lack
than have. For all the want in me for You,
I am ever sin-seeking, ever sin-
sought, as one wave to beach yet due
or magnet to magnet drawn, the serpent's kin
itself, not only fallen but creating fall
as well. You look, with innumerable mercies past
the blood and death I owe that stand to call
inadequate my righteousnessless cast.
For all of me that can't be what it ought,
The price is paid, the debt already bought.

Passing Through Fire

You men of faith, whose inner fires dwindle,
whose spirits tremble with timidity
at the thought of stirring up the dark, rekindle
what lies dormant somewhere underneath
the burned out soot and ash, cool and grey
that we have learned to tolerate and ignore.
Rake aside the embers that died away
and bring to air the underlying store
of warmth and energy. Fire has not
a neutral spirit. We were made to burn,
not to sit in shadows but in hot
response to God, and let our fanning turn
To flame. For that which waits to be relit,
May God’s consuming fire kindle it.


Contemplation on Darkness

It holds no form its own but takes the shape
Of anything it hides behind, although
Often in flux or flag or otherwise
In strange dissimilation, a vicious rape
Of anatomy. It doesn't feign to owe
Allegiance as it chooses its disguise.

It's thick like yarn unwound completely or
A wool sweater unraveled to a pile.
It creeps and crawls like ivy up a wall,
Claw over claw, the deft assassin corps
Maneuvering through land mines, all the while
A coward, for the light still makes it pall.

Contemplation on a Cat

Like the black ooze of tar spilled across
The ground or like molasses seeping through
a recipe or like a shadow's form
Framed behind the lump where light has tossed
Its silhouette against the wall, a shoe
sliding on a foot, a quiet storm

Building in the west and blowing in,
A lump of algae ushered in from sea
To rest on the sand, a tired unshaved face
Rolling over on a pillow, tin
Scorched in fire till it crumples, a tree
Growing from an oriental vase.

Contemplation on Early Spring

The damp world waltzes to the clear
Ring of rain, winter's promenade
From royal court to beggar's corner's bed,
And spring, December's long-time captive, here
Begins its dance, not the measured trade
Of winter's melancholy, but instead,

The turbulent jive and swing that leaves its breath
Upon the window panes and downs its gin
Between the rhythmic footfalls of its rave,
The raucous neighbor who brings cold's early death,
Then bears its funeral pyre as next of kin,
Amidst the din of music, to its grave.

End Times

The first horizon,
Jawline over Eden,
God's teeth sinking in,
Juicy, rotting -
He spits seeds
Still cultivating,
And washes out
Our mouths with rain -
Then, a smile
Painting promise,
He hangs a sign:

Workers needed:
No deep sea divers,
Only firefighters.

My Generation

We speak left-handed,
Words reflecting in our eyes
Like the half moon in this hollow
Half-winter lake, stirred,
As it were, by the Spirit's descending,
And we slip our bodies in,
If only in our minds,
Like ice cubes into tea,
Mellowing feeble March
By the diffusion of our Voices.

We walk left-handed
In the holes between
Footprints toward the sky
We see falling,
Feet angled into new agendas
Like a fascist in sackcloth
And ashes singing the national
Anthem backwards through the butt
End of a lit cigarette
As certain octaves slip into coffins.

We think left-handed
While science tells us we are
LD bi-polar psychos,
Statistics shoved into pidgeon holes
(and it reaks of pidgeon dung here),
The glitch in the program
That freezes up the mainframe
And steals your identity
(But we are only stealing it back)
To buy expensive plastic surgery.


Life, the blurry apparition,
Like driving through winter
When the snow and salt
And ice white out your windshield,
Stands on one leg,
Not quite the promenade,
Nor the dance we feel
Between our toes,
But rather the lost expression
Of the ill-newsed,
Holding to a form of espionage
Although we routinely deny
Its deception, but
Rather the awkward sleep
Of flamingos against the pink
Of sundown, where
Our lives, we think,
Sink into dim waters,
When really the sun,
Because the earth
Is the revolver,
Doesn't set at all.