i did
the work of god
and never stopped to think
i should have rather boldly asked,
what god?
religion
Saying Grace
He said Grace over the meal,
mouthing words that were meant
to bring divine blessing,
to sanctify the mundane
act of eating and make the partakers
of food participants in the Holy.
We humans have probably
always done this: take typical
everyday activities and try
our best to infuse them with
heavenly purpose, hoping to make
our lives count for something beyond
this life, somehow coaxing glory
into our existence,
an otherworldly manifestation,
an angel’s breath.
Isn’t it’s just as likely
we bring our own meaning
in the very act of living?
Eat, drink, share,
love, marvel—
what more is there to add?
It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything, even longer since posting anything. It’s tough coming back from a long break–I feel like an outsider to my own thoughts, like I’m intruding where I’m no longer welcome. I’ve got to get past this. So anyway–this was written as a response to a poetry prompt for dVerse.
Heaven
i dreamed
of bright heaven . . .
and my angry approach
to the throne of god was met with
“i know.”
At the Crossroads Inn
Late night in a strange town.
What kind of town don’t sell booze
at the corner store?
Can’t get my mind off the
cold tapping of a limb
on the dirty window
and wondering if we ever grow out
of this incessant application
of the same fucking solutions
to the same fucking problems,
never solving anything, never realizing
the solutions are part of the problem.
Maybe even The Problem. I don’t know.
What do I know? I’m no deep thinker.
Not putting up with it for four more nights—
tomorrow I’m calling in a request
to have that damn limb cut off.
The book in the drawer
says to come unto me,
all ye that labour and are heavy
laden. Been told that all my life,
and tried it for most of it.
That promised rest don’t never come.
Don’t never come.
Starting to reckon there’s no one out there,
no one able to give rest, anyway.
Yellow light from the roadside
glimmers through window grime.
It’s not a sign of anything.
Nothing’s a sign of anything.
Petition
you ask . . .
but there’s no one
to even consider
whether your words mean anything
or not
Whatever
i look
toward the night sky
with a prayer on my lips
and a shrug at the ensuing
silence
Remember Lot’s Wife
The way
to keep yourself
from yearning for the past
is to light it afire before
you leave.
The Cross
(Image credit: Sun-Times File Photo)
Thunder overhead.
Lightning diagrams a cross
On the onyx sky.
This light in my eye still shines—
Am I able to bear it?
Walt Whitman: from Song of the Open Road
Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,
They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all
under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and
flowing currents.
Two Sticks
two sticks
upon the ground
are more real to me than
all the shining hosts of angels
and saints
Written in honor of Stephen Crane’s birthday. Those of you who stop in regularly know how I love Crane’s work–my blog is titled after a line of his, after all! While he never wrote cinquains (as far as I know) this piece is in the spirit of his poetry. I hope he would approve.
My Tiny Throes 