AFK

To Emily about Regret

2012-01-14T23:50:00.000-05:00

Previously Published in dotdotdash

If Hope is a feathered thing,
Regret is simply

a tardy ice
spread over jonquils
who too early broke their silence
just to hope for spring.

Coin

2011-12-06T17:28:00.000-05:00

He saw her in the coat room
when he chaperoned her prom,
and being her teacher,
he looked on her as a father would;
with pride he said, “Why, Charlotte,
you look stunning.”
She grinned back,
and joined her date who stood outside the room.

She saw him in the coat room
when he chaperoned her prom,
and being his student,
she almost didn’t go in with him there alone;
he said, “Why, Charlotte,
you look stunning.”
She awkwardly smiled,
and joined her date who stood outside the room.

The Senior Poem 2011

2011-05-13T17:47:00.002-05:00

Parent to Child

Dear Child,

Out of our deepest love,
expectation.

My hatred for the word “precious”
is not because you have no value,
but because it is a word of greeting cards--cliched.
You will never know what it feels like
until a part of your soul
lies in your hands and
memorizes your face, searching for
some clue on how to grow.
Until the most beautiful thing witnessed
is a tiny person in a crib sleeping.
And while you nursed on sounds newly forming on your lips,
I saw a future better than I.

Out of our expectation,
disappointment.

Why is it we think the children will save us?
The regret is that any bad choice you will ever make
is a genetic mutation of my post-Edenic DNA.
The regret is that many plans I had for us
are still sitting in boxes yet to be opened
with receipts crumpled in my pocket.
The regret is
with me.

Out of our disappointment,
honesty—

the honesty about how I’ve tried to walk in your shoes,
to taste your music,
to talk as if age cannot steal youth from me,
but now I must face the mirror and see
the lines which read I am your parent and was not meant to be
your friend.
And I need your forgiveness for
trying to be
relevant.

Out of our honesty,
joy—

the joy that although religion is profane,
God is sacred and
that our home is a cathedral,
that I am the priest,
that every chore we shared
was a rite of worship,
each memory a stained glass piece of
a beautiful window through which we see the sky,
and that every argument was a prayer that you would be less me.

Out of our joy,
contentment

because family is an heirloom blanket, tattered and thread-bare,
a scrap of grandma, a stitch of aunt,
and if we
are careful not to let it smother us,
it will keep us warm.

Out of our contentment,
resolution

that you have become what you have become,
and I am what I am,
and there is beauty and flaw in both,
and that dirt was never anything but something to stand on
until God planted his breath down deep,
and in that resolution,
my child,
my precious child,
is hope.

Out of our resolution,
hope.

Out of our deepest love,
hope.

2011-04-03T16:29:00.001-05:00

G.O.S.P.E.L. from Humble Beast Records on Vimeo.

The Game of Gossip in 1 Scene

2011-02-27T19:04:00.004-05:00

(The characters take the stage and form a line across the stage. St. John begins the line on stage right and the thirteen characters stand side by side facing the audience. Each character whispers his/her lines into the ear of the character to his left.)

ST. JOHN

Your faith is evident in your acts of love.

CHARACTER 1

Your faith is evident in your acts of love.

CHARACTER 2

Your faith is evident in your acts of love.

CHARACTER 3

Your faith is evident in your acts.

CHARACTER 4

Your faith is evident in your acts.

CHARACTER 5

Your faith is your acts.

CHARACTER 6

Your faith is your acts.

CHARACTER 7

Your acts are your faith.

CHARACTER 8

You are your acts of faith.

CHARACTER 9

You are your acts and faith.

CHARACTER 10

You are your faith.

CHARACTER 11

Your faith is you.

CHARACTER 12

You are faith.

The End.

Poets

2011-01-12T19:19:00.001-05:00

Poets cannot understand

war or

economics or

politics or

auto mechanics or

even bookkeeping

although they may pretend to.

These are things without love.

Poets can only

caress or

cradle or

nurse or

ween or

cause pain,

the kind that brings hope.

Fighting Fish

2010-12-15T14:13:00.000-05:00

When babies aren’t born,

his wrinkled, calloused hands wrestle each other,

it hurts the daddy too.

He sits in the lobby of the assisted care home, staring at the aquarium.

Not the same as the mother, but when a baby is stillborn—where the hell did they get the name anyway?Because the baby is still? There is nothing still afterwards.
We lost—she lost—three.The weirdest thing is for someone to be born dead. Born and dead at the same time.

The water plants sway in the filtered water.

I think the thing that hurt most was packing up the crib and buying the little coffin, so small it looked like a stage prop. Everything must have its place to end. Everything finds its place.

Water puddles on his lower eyelid.

Sometimes I wonder what if. I guess there is no reason to think of these fill in the blanks as much as I do.

The setting sun bleeds pink through the window. I will have to leave soon.

She left me soon after we buried the last one. We stayed married in the same house, but she was never really there--not inside.

He chuckles. I follow his stare to two pink fish in the tank, repeatedly kissing and backing away flirtatiously.

Ever see pink gouramis? the fish? It looks like they’re kissing. They’re beautiful, but they’re actually

The gnarled knuckles of each hand hit.

doing battle. They’re trying to suck the life out of each other. That’s what we were.

There is a ringing of our own silence that makes me shift my view.

Nothing causes everything to die inside--where they can’t be repaired or replaced--like a child’s death. ‘Specially one you never knew.

Prayer, Second Version

2010-12-12T16:43:00.000-05:00

Mostly is not all
as evidenced forever,
a fate so apropos
no jury would deny.
Midnight died for lack of prayer,
and yet I beat my fists against your father chest.
"You are no father to me," I shout without remorse.

The runes of blood tattooed
across your skin remind me
there is nothing more frightening than
God damning, nothing more deserved.
Now your holy fingers
slip into the sinew of my thigh, and
I fight no more.

You were my great whiting out,
painted over heart textures,
relief and ravine of soul,
onion paper over bone stretched.

Be thou my cancer --
the eating of my core,
the tendrils inseparably spiraling around my hopes--
the vegetable spine that wills against desire.

Take the colors from me,
the hazing demanding verdict,
the deadline long since passed,
the message clearly given:

Abuse is not grace.
Release is not grace.
Forget is not grace.
Cost is grace.

Introversion

2010-10-19T18:07:00.000-05:00

The pulse is beats across
the hand with a wooden rod.
The lungs are sponges for baptismal water
pressing across the chest.
The rumblings of meaning are slight taps
on the shoulder of a stranger—
“Could you please remove your hat?”
The voice of thunder barely rustles
the re-sewn veil.
Grace is a gift lying broken,
rocking back and forth,
on the floor
after the party.

How can I be real to you
when every word is digitized?
How can I climb into your heart
when my legs are scabbed and atrophied?
How can I be what you need
when all I worship are words?

The Crowd on the MARTA

2010-09-25T09:44:00.001-05:00

Shadows don’t know
what
is figure and ground.
Someone should tell them.
They think
they have substance of
more than just absence,
defining themselves by
what
they are not.

131

2010-08-31T19:13:00.001-05:00

Today my heart is not lifted up.
Sometimes I lift my eyes unto the hills.
Today my eyes contemplate the sand.

Sometimes I sing until I’m sore.
Today I am silent.

I have calmed and quieted my soul
like a little boy
reaching up to his mother’s hand

like a little boy
silent and waiting

with a mother
who has nothing to say
but stares ahead.

Prayer

2010-08-11T14:57:00.003-05:00

Mostly is not all

as evidenced forever,

a fate so apropos,

the emptiness to fill.

The runes of blood tattooed

across your skin remind me

there is nothing more frightening than

God damning, nothing more deserved.

You are my cancer--

the eating of my core,

the tendrils inseparably spiraling around my will--

the vegetable spine that wills against desire.

Intimate finger trace

skimmed over heart textures,

relief and ravine of soul

over finite bone stretched.

Take the colors from me,

the hazing demanding verdict,

the deadline long since passed,

the message given clear:

Abuse is not grace.

Release is not grace.

Forget is not grace.
Cost is grace.

i__g_ne

2010-07-07T22:16:00.005-05:00

Is it ok to not want _____?
to recognize that the____________ would
cheapen_________?
is it all right to want to hold on to
_____makes me Black
and ____White
even __________________
and not want the gray __________
____the brushes are washed?

Maybe _______to mulch and _____
the roots of my ___________
and care _______my______ .
Maybe I can't cram an _______
into a ________________________.
Maybe I should be
colorless, ________, tasteless
carbon monoxide
slowly, silently killing _________ in the garage.

Or maybe, John,
I don't want to ________a world of harmony.
Maybe I want to be free
to hate
if hating defines my love.

This Year's Senior Poem

2010-05-11T20:53:00.003-05:00

Two Lanes: On Your Graduation

One hour from now you will
emerge from these robes,
listen to the congratulations of people you don’t remember,
and fly in a swirl of celebration.

Forty years from now I will,
with trembling hands, fumble through yellow papers
and find this, and pause, and try to remember now.
“I think I know who they are…” I will say,
And I will miss my mother.

One year from now you will
come to visit your high school
and watch new players fill the old roles.
“Do I really have to wear this visitor’s tag?” you will say.
You’ll wonder at how like children we are.

Twenty years from now I will
slowly set my books into a cardboard box,
take down the diplomas, and look at my wife.
“Maybe now we can take time for us,” I will say
as if it had been a sacrifice.

Five years from now you will
straighten the creases of your best suit
and wonder if the air conditioning is working.
“What I lack in experience I make up in loyalty,” you will say
during your first real interview.

Ten years from now I will
regret to inform you that I cannot
attend your wedding because it falls
on the same day that I take my child to college,
and you will remember—it seems like yesterday—
each time you were left at school.
“I understand,” you will say, and then forget it,
as you should,
because you can only think of the beauty of every minute detail of your love.

Five years from now I will
wonder if all fathers of teenagers
grip the inside door when their children drive.
“Would it hurt you to just slow down a little?” I will say,
and I will mean it in two ways.

Twenty years from now you will
see the mother and father of it all as you
hold the infant reverently.
“I didn’t know love felt this deep,” you will say,
and trace the edges of her fingers.

One year from now I will
write another poem for another class
and remember this moment
“Every year I write a poem for the senior class,” I will say.
Many of them will forget it.

Forty years from now you will look in her eyes,
and it will make full circle sense.
I didn’t know happiness could hurt this much, you think, but you say, “It happened when I wasn’t looking,”
and you will know that there is nothing more beautiful
than a bride who will always be your little girl.

One hour--
two hours—
three hours—
four—

I have no idea what I will be doing.
I have no idea what you will be.
I have no idea what I will.
I have no idea what.
I have no idea why
or when.
There is only who.

I know the three, like ancient fates
who always surround us looking over our cribs
with holy tears:
Faith who carries us like children crying for home.
Hope who encourages our adolescent spirits to be free.
And Love who waits for us with Father arms to
smooth our hair, to kiss us, to tell us the storm has gone.

The Loss that Changed Everything

2010-04-20T10:49:00.003-05:00

This is what I remember,
the pencil sketches on newsprint
that I must translate.

I remember, five, you at two, brother,
the smell of your boy sweat hair,
the grasp of fingers into my shirt
as one we wrestled on a carpet, our imaginary sea.

I remember the morning a week later
you left me:
Father carrying me, whispering to me he loved
me, whispering of
Jesus,
whispering the stains of weeping
on his cheeks.
I remember someone visiting and
giving me a set of
over two
hundred
crayons which even then I thought a gift
too small to match
or burn
the loss.

But mostly I remember sitting in a small
rocking chair while the adults mourned,
hearing the wails and moans and mournings of a
cat that had
homed under our house and
wondering where they had hidden you
and if I could set you free.

I have been told not to write a confessional
because when you grow up,
nobody cares,
but this is for me finally and not
for them.

A Flarf Poem

2010-04-08T10:40:00.000-05:00

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Merry Christmas, Childhood

Easter Sunday

2010-04-03T19:35:00.000-05:00

men tip their hats

women smile demurely

and children high-five

the risen Lord

in passing thanks

for the egg-grace

hidden in the grass

Sunday morning

the chocolate God love

found on the church playground

or at brunch in new poplin

or at golf

in appreciation

for what happened on a hole in one-less hill in Israel.

I sit and judge them,

but is this day so different

from each day I

assume His grace was cheap?

Lessons Learned from One Dying

2010-02-28T21:56:00.001-05:00

Just be.

Birch bark peeled back at the
end of winter.

Thawing ice, in an
abandoned corner of a field,
dripping water on red clay.

The fighting dog, no longer guarding his bone,
circling and lying down in the
sun.

A glass of iced tea with mint and lemon offered in the
heat of July yard work.

A child’s fingers tracing the prickly edges of a
father’s beard.

A tender, calloused hand wiping
a tear from a child’s cheek.

Bleeding palms turned outward against
heavy splintering wood.

Gargoyle

2010-02-16T17:39:00.003-05:00

The shortest distance between two points
is the line between the past that is
and the present that was.

I could see evil,
a crouched imp stuffed full of nothing
perched at the foot of my morning preschool bed.

I have wrestled its stories
and believed the claws
and warmth of the embrace of madness.

Inverted prayer knees
pulled to chest as it rocked with
hyena echoes.

There is a sickness there.
Eyes painted on eye lids.
Lies blood-tainting white wedding dresses.

I slept with my door cracked
so I could put the puzzles together—
what they said in the darkness of a grownup world.

The rose-colored, rain-coated window panes
shade the view,
a palette of crimson blurred.

Teachers could not hurt me
with their cuts of bleeding red
over rogue pencil etchings.

After a night of adult words spilling from wine glasses,
even though every power line slashes the throat of the sunrise sky,
and the morning sun was blistering, nothing could hurt me, and
the wings are mine.

Coping

2010-01-10T10:19:00.000-05:00

The elephant has been here for too long.
I have thought of sending it out, but it won’t fit through the door.

I have thought of eating it, which I’m told you can do
piece by piece,
but I’m too picky to eat elephant,
and my guess is it doesn’t taste like chicken.

Maybe I can make it a pet,
train it,
cuddle up with it at night,
and stay warm.

Unaware (after listening to a great slam artist)

2009-11-29T21:04:00.000-05:00

I know you didn’t mean it to me directly,
but in one poem (exceptionally read), you stuck a huge stick of dynamite up in me and
blasted everything I believe in,
and I don’t know how I feel about that.

Although I applaud, from a place as deep as my doubt, after everything you do,
I sat there silent, and then left the room.
I didn’t have anything to say.
I hate feeling stupid.

I felt like a fourth grader when the cool kid walks up to him
and says, “You’re stupid,”
and then punches him in the face.
That puny little guy goes away and pretends it doesn’t hurt until the swelling goes down.

I wanted to say, “Hey, I hated it like you.
I doubted it. I kicked against the wall of human suffering.
I wandered into churches at night and shook my fist at the stained glass above me.”
But it got stuck in my throat.

I have fought this fight before with
Sylvia Plath and Charles Bukowski,
and a hundred other poets—like you¬—whom I love,
but who—like you—would hate what I am if they knew me.

I don’t feel the hatred you say engulfs my beliefs. I wanted to, but
I hear your words ricocheting down the halls of my mind,
and I can see down that hall because of the sparks made by your mastery of sound.
And I love what that has done for me as an artist.

Some would say, “I feel pity for somebody that doesn’t believe in God,”
but that’s just arrogant,
and I don’t feel particularly proud of myself right now nor condescending.
I definitely don’t want to be the sole representative of a two thousand year old religion.

I don’t feel wounded
because I know you weren’t angry with me;
I’m not sure you were angry at all.
I feel a little novocained right now, and I have to come to.

Maybe I love you
because you shook the tree I sit in
and if a tree is strong enough to sit in,
it’s strong enough to shake.

I guess I did take it personally
because I have read the book cover to cover
and took it in, like a lover memorizes a face,
and I actually thought it out instead of just accepting it
in a ribboned box at Christmas.

I guess it bothers me that sooner
or later we reach this fork in the road—this diversity fork—
and we can look at each other and be tolerant just so long before separating into different paths.
I see you getting smaller in the distance.

I guess I wonder if two people
build on different foundations, that are,
to the other one, invisible,
can they ever really see the other person’s building at all?

I guess I wonder
if you knew what I actually believed,
and that I bought into what you see as lies,
if you would still respect me.

And I hate that.
Because I really shouldn’t care.

The Stress Song of J. Alfred Prufrock III

2009-11-13T19:50:00.003-05:00

Originally published in Clockwise Cat.

Everyone knows what I should do.
My grandfather thinks I should find a new career.
My minister thinks I should come to church.
My boss thinks I should spend more time at work.

Splintering carnival lights,
blinding colors of a rotating, suffocating world,
a beam across my nostrils,
outward stretching fire.
Spindles of desire.
My wife thinks I should spend more time at home.

It’s not the major crisis that will kill you, the death or lost exception
It’s the stress of unfulfilling the endless expectations.
It’s the bouncing baby boy--
changed to the bouncing of the ball--
changed to the bouncing of the lover--
who must earn the grade.
It’s not the glass ceiling that binds my flight
as much as the glass walls.

My neighbor thinks I should paint my house.
My friend thinks I should paint the town red.

I am Stanley Kowalski ripping his shirt,
Miniver Cheevy masking the hurt.
I am every man who internally rages,
a thousand brains in a hundred cages.
Only idiot children read my pages.
I am an overdue book.

My television thinks I should eat.
My physician thinks I should lose twenty pounds.

*******
The explosion I make--
not a bang
but a whimper,
less eruption than sneeze,
the plastic collapsible dagger
aimed at the world--
scares no one but me.
In the presence of mine enemies
I lay out Chinet®.

My mother thinks I should call more.
My brother thinks I should live my own life.

And should I scuttle across the floors of silent seas?
Do you want me to scuttle?
I’ll scuttle from chatroom to chatroom,
the one night cheap hotels of an introvert world,
electric sawdust filling my nostrils,
smudges of kisses across my lonely screen.
In truth, I have no name,
just a glory in my shame.

My attorney thinks I should remove all references to other people’s poetry.

*******
Freud thinks all people want is sex.
Adler thinks all people want is to belong.
I think all people want is fame,
rocking back and forth in a darkened corner
cradling and nursing our blogs.
Maybe we all agree.

My blahblah thinks I should blahblahblah….

There is a fear we all have…
direct from Ecclesiastes…
a fear that one day we’ll wake up
and no one,
not even our shadows,
will really care.

*******
Seedlings were planted in the park today.
I wonder if they will see the sun
enough to grow.

********
May I rest my head on a multifoliate pillow.
May the ceiling fan blades cut out the sound of
their thoughts.
May I feel the hollowness of my belly
rising and falling as
a lullaby is hummed , miles away.

127

2009-11-01T08:20:00.001-05:00

I declare,
if the Lord don’t build it,
ain’t no use to build it.
It’s like He babysits us all night, y’all,
and there’s no use to stay up to the wee hours
or get up at the cracka-dawn
all ate up with worry ‘bout your work when
He can rock you to sleep.

I want y’all to listen,
our children, good or bad, are all we get from God,
our only reward.
They’re the bullets in the shot gun
when we fend off death at our door.

Doctor's Prescription

2009-10-12T19:51:00.002-05:00

"I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me. They were delicious, so sweet and so cold"
"So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rainwater, beside the white chickens."

You said, “Not ideas,
but in things.”
Like wet farm tools,
or the last plum,
or white chickens pecking at the dirt,
or
shards of my teacup
on a wooden floor
in a lake of amber tea.

Jeff Peeples by Peter Gabbert

2009-10-06T12:52:00.003-05:00

Jeff Peeples, a beast, indulges Earl Grey.
His friend of many years is now the staple of his day.
He cannot leave the house without his favorite pick-me-up.
He typically uses a mug, but today he uses a cup.
I feel compelled to reference the awesome Aaron Nix
who, just like Peeps in college, doth pick up many chicks.
His rugged handsome features can stop you in your tracks
Unless he's had too much tea to drink--a single cup is his max.
Like leaves in the fall, admired by all, his charm is that of a poet.
Sarcastic is he, unhappy with me, but scared is he to show it.
Underneath the layers, all the years lost to sadness
He's really just an innocent boy, a victim of the madness.
His psychological break-downs are really just a cover.
His cheeks are turning red because I love him like a brother.

by Peter Gabbert 9-05-09

Moving On

2009-09-21T19:01:00.002-05:00

There are no metaphors left for death.
The butterfly emerging from the chrysalis,
the carriage driver,
the journey across a river
whatever its name
are hollow by now.
One would think that
an experience that feels so new
to all of us
from Adam
to David
to me
would birth in us words that could capture the pain.

This is the hard part:
the final kiss from the door of the house,
a goodbye to a tenant who would never
come back even if given the chance.
Only a final glance as if to say,
"I'll go on ahead.
You come later."

Oh, glorious risen Christ,
Defeator of this thing we see too often as an end,
give final grace.
You who knows the the stains of weeping
simply, quietly, hold us now.

For Meaghan and Dylan

2009-08-15T09:21:00.002-05:00

Wedding Blessing

This is a blessing
on all the forgotten days,
the normal days,
the Tuesday in January days
when nothing is really happening and
there is nothing springing eternal.

This is a blessing
on all the angry words,
the “you’re just like your parents” threats,
the fleeting “I should have never done this” doubts,
the fear he will never understand her,
and the horror when she does him.

This is a blessing
on the bad breath moments,
the haircut mistakes,
on the time when her hips grow as quickly as his belly,
when hair recedes or relocates,
when the back is stooped and the grasp shaky.

This is a blessing
on the “we can’t afford that” moments,
the loss of money or pride,
the denial of self
that doesn’t feel like denial when the two are one,
the nights when holding is the only touch desired.

This is a blessing
on the weeping so strong
it shakes the body
and matches to the beat of the heart
of the one you are cradling,
on the fever at midnight and the glimpse of final goodbyes.

There is much to be treasured in romance
and the candlelight specks in sparkling eyes,
but this blessing is on the deepest roots
that burrow far below a kiss
through sickness, sin, and madness
to the nurturing of tears.

The Root

2009-07-31T08:36:00.011-05:00

“How long have you battled with your
mental health?”
I had to laugh at first.
Battle with it?
I really just surrendered.
But I thought.
My brother died.
After that.
My grandfather died.
After that.
My mother died.
After that.

I remembered.

I first went crazy when a group of Christians
brought me and another teacher
into a room at a church
to listen to complaints
about the books we had their children read.

“Wicked,” “Perverse”
“Corrupt children”
They tied us to our chairs with their accusations.
The words,when sprayed on us by a pastor,
were acidic, eating through the paper of our diplomas.
But we sat still in the undercurrent.
Words were kidnapped
from pages
and raped before our faces.
I could see tears puddle in my colleague’s eyes.
But we had been told not to defend ourselves.
To stay quiet.
If we just stayed quiet, it would go away.

We sat silent.
And something in me was murdered that day.

“Am I this evil?”
I couldn’t help but ask myself.
I loved them.
I just wanted them to learn.

I have sinned.
Oh, I have sinned,
but that sin is not my sin.

"They eat each other here,"
I heard the whisper bouncing off sterile walls,
the sacred walls of orthodoxy and contempt,
and I thought they meant something like the Lord's Supper
or the Eucharist, but that wouldn't be right--not eat each other, that would be eat Him--
but I distinctly heard "each other," and I'm not even sure who whispered it;
it just came in my head.

Cannibalism from Spanish Canibalis,
name (as recorded by Christopher Columbus)
of the allegedly cannibalistic Caribs of Cuba and Haiti.
Oral Sadism
Vultures feed on the dead,but God's children feed on the living.

This is the answer,
the secret I hide inside me.
This is why I sometimes break down in tears for no reason.
Why I sometimes fly apart.
Why I wake up sweating in panic at 3 a.m.
Why I run from conflict whenever I can.
Why I desperately want to be loved.
Why I trust few persons
but God.

Stones

2009-07-05T09:10:00.003-05:00

White, smooth, weather polished stones.
My grandmother and I collected them in the park
behind my house. Or rather she watched me
as I chose each one, somehow instinctively,
and placed it in my pocket.
I’m not sure on what merits I made my choices,
which to leave by the gnarled oak tree
and which to plant on each side of me.
I felt sorry for all the orphan rocks and wanted to take them all.
But choosing one means leaving another,
and perhaps they chose me anyway.
Some were tiny like bird eggs.
Some were larger like the cobblestones
used as ballast before paving the downtown streets.

With these, I would fill my pockets until I could hardly move,
almost doubling my weight with rubble.
I would sway with the weight of the mounds.

I have kept these stones since that day,
lining my pockets with their heavy affection.
Sometimes they have kept me from floating away.
Sometimes they have caused me to drown.

Grandmother

2009-06-02T14:41:00.001-05:00

He lived just two doors down
from her when he was eight,
and when she sent him home
with a hot glass bowl of something she had cooked
for him to share with his other family down the street,
she said,
“If you fall running down the street,
throw the bowl to the side.
I don’t want it to cut you.
I can always get another bowl.
I can’t get another grandson.”
And she watched as
the skinny legs stiffly and awkwardly
carried the blonde boy balancing a steaming dish
to his home.
The back of her hand wiping the sweat from her forehead,
the breeze on the front porch blowing through her house dress.

This was the philosophy taught,
the first lesson of many rules:
that no matter how
precious the work performed,
no matter how hard the sacrifice,
no matter how blistered the hands may be,
the one receiving the gift is always
valued more.

Finding Me

2009-05-28T14:41:00.002-05:00

An explanation of this poem:
The more I meet other poets and listen to their performances, the more I am amazed by two types of poetry: form--a departure from free verse and a journey back to older styles using meter and rhyme more formally, illustrated in the first part of the poem--and performance poetry or spoken word--poetry which gains its strength in the performance, illustrated in the second part of the poem. I'm not sure I'm good at either one. After hearing some of these genius voices, I wrote about trying to find my voice:

I wish I wrote my poems with such style
That everyone that heard would be amazed
At how the syllables danced, all the while
Enchanting readers helpless, listening, dazed.
But I don’t do that.

I wish I was a master of spoken word
demanding my message be heard
or I’ll knock you ‘side the head with my diction
the prediction in my fiction
forcing you to grab on, hold tight,
spin around,
shaking you,
breaking you,
making you
love the mouse that roared
in my house that soared higher than anybody
ever thought poetry could take them.
I could throw in an “ation”
like syncopation
with the nation
of anticipation.
I wanna curse
and be political,
maybe even Democrat.
But I don’t do that.

All I can do
is stand
on white tile
and bleed
and cry as I try to clean the mess
and hope
that someone who hears me
feels somewhat warmer
knowing that the coldness of the world
is shared.

Audio of this poem

Something Different

2009-05-14T13:58:00.004-05:00

Ok, I'm the one usually writing the poetry, but this time one of my students in my AP Lit. class and in my AP Psychology class wrote one for me, about me. The estrogen comment involves my class of all girls, one boy.

Clocks
Clocks and strange toys and lots of art
Hanging effortlessly from the walls
You shuffle in like a mouse
Hurrying to find his house
"So what's up!?" you say
Louder than I think you intend

We talk and laugh and joke around
And when I leave I feel I've found
Someone understands and knows
Just how far away my mind goes

Desks
Desks in a circle
And no one in the middle
Empty-empty
Till we fill it with thoughts
Like a large melting pot

You have shown us that
Literature is not just about tastes
But the characters and meanings
Behind all that is said

We walk away
Not loving or hating
But with a little bit of something
Bigger than ourselves

Estrogen
Estrogen everywhere
You cannot hide
Psychology is a mixture
Of biology and the immaterial mind

As Christians it's okay
To try to comprehend
All that goes on inside the head

Words, times, minds
Always changing
Never ending
Understanding

You have made high school
Bearable
Changeable
Livable

So thank you
My counselor
My teacher
My friend
You have shown that
Literature is not just words
Psychology is not just chemicals
And I am not my own but God's

Gray Water, White Sky

2009-05-05T12:52:00.002-05:00

When you told me you
had decided to sign contract
at a school in which I do not work
and leave the one in which I do,

When you said,
“This is not the end of our relationship,”
and we both laughed
because it sounded like a failed romance
and we were two men in my office,

I didn’t think to give
my opinion ,
or say what I thought of you,
or that I understood Daedalus.

I only swallowed and remembered the
television when I was growing
up. The colorless fuzzy images of
gray water and white sky.

Life in a Second

2009-05-03T10:33:00.001-05:00

What is this other life I live?
Do I take on divinity
and create an image
of what I wish I was,
carefully selecting the items of me I
like and forming out of digital clay
only what I find tolerable?
Starting from scratch, do I
throw away the original blueprints
and build the new stronger,
better,
faster
version of Poet 2.0?

Or do I merely
birth a crying babe
into pixilated life?
A form released from molecules and age.
A man more like me
Than I could ever be myself.

The Muse

2009-04-29T13:24:00.001-05:00

You’re difficult to interpret, you little, disembodied imp,
who, poised crossed leg and stretching at my keyboard,
urges me to write, but flirts me away from concentration.
Stripped of the physical,
you have taught me how much attraction
blends with intellect ,
blends with ageless sensibility,
blends with spontaneity,
blends with art.
Child of the land of my forefathers,
you lead me to examine their faith
and separate what I take as inheritance, and
what I set to the curb.
Correcting my grammar,
shaking my beliefs,
inspiring my spirit,
supporting my growth,
you make me wish that I was like you:
humble,
giving,
untameable,
free.

Pool

2009-03-08T17:32:00.001-05:00

He is playing at the pool, this nine or ten year old boy with glowing white skin from indoors and a baseball cap he refuses to remove and wears like a crown of manhood. He is comfortable playing alone until he notices her, a girl about his age in a brown bathing suit the color of her hair. She swims up to him to engage him in play, splashing her greeting.

Everything she does he tries to do better, and they begin playing side by side. She races past him. He swims faster. They shoot water guns and bat a ball back and forth with their hands. He always lets her go first. He is straddling competition and chivalry, and he doesn’t understand why, but he doesn’t want her to go away. She is a tomboy, but there is softness to her moves. “I’m coming to the pool tomorrow,” he tells her before he leaves with his mother. She nods and laughs.

And I sit under a pool umbrella and watch because the girl is my nine year old daughter. My moleskine journal is afraid to accept my fountain pen memories of this moment. The young Romeo’s naive and innocent interest is both beautiful and frightening.

old moleskine
empty, off-white pages
damp with the pool’s tears

Lies

2008-12-22T21:56:00.006-05:00

He took me to dinner
for steaks
and wined me
and wooed me
and told me these things.

that I was always
beautiful.

that if people didn't agree with me,
they were wrong.

that life
should be fair.

that I should believe
what people say about me.

that the only authority I should honor
is the authority with whom I agree.

that my beliefs are based
on my feelings.

that it is easier to avoid problems
than to fix them.

that love
is a feeling.

that my parents were
always right.

that I was always
ugly.

that I shouldn't have to wait
for what I want.

that I'm better
than everyone else.

that love is
a chemical.

that all my problems
are caused by my sin.

that I'm worse
than everyone else.

that I must get approval
or else I am worthless.

that my parents were
always wrong.

that none of my problems
were caused by my sin.

that people are
basically good.

and, pushing himself from the table,

that there is
no devil.

Coffee Boy at Starbucks

2008-12-21T21:12:00.000-05:00

The center of attention....
every sip of his coffee deliberate,
every witty dialogue rehearsed
when he chose the t-shirt that morning,
the one that fit him to the skin with no room for mistakes.
"I am an open book."

But now he watches the new one...
move through his friends with casual, impromptu charm,
with no anxiety,
flicking a cigarette butt,
trying them on one
by one for size.

The Attack

2008-12-21T19:47:00.006-05:00

And the sharp pains
knifing my chest
were from You,
Lion of Judah
as Your teeth gripped
deep into the meat of my heart that
You shook relentlessly,
splattering the sin from Your prey
across my burning eyes
as I adoringly stroked Your mane.

presumption

2008-11-20T17:09:00.003-05:00

"If God is listening..."
she murdered the cigarette in the ashtray...
"then perhaps he'd like to explain..."
lipstick mark on the tip...
"...why something so good came to such a screeching halt."

And I didn't know what to say.

A tree strong enough to sit in is strong enough
to shake.
But I wish I could be stirred instead.

"Perhaps, he'd like to step forward and be held accountable..."

and I wanted--
with empathy for her
and malice toward none--
ok, malice toward her--
to defend Him,
my nonAmerican
nonrepublican
sexless God
of many colors

and He laughed

as I played with my straw paper.

These Thoughts and Feelings

2008-10-19T12:37:00.003-05:00

And I will line my glasses in a neat, straight row on the top cupboard shelf,
and I will close the door and hide them safely behind white lacquered wood,
assured that they will not fall out to the floor
crashing in a million shards on the linoleum.
And they will not be seen by anyone but me
if I choose to use them.

They will never get dusty,
and, sadly, they will stay as new.

Consumer

2008-08-24T11:42:00.007-05:00

originally published in Clockwise Cat

It is the stuff we buy.
It is the need that is not quite a need.
It is the hollowness filled with chocolate.
It is the landfill on which I build my playground.

The plastic bag reads,
"Caution: Keep away from small children.
The thin film may cling to the nose and mouth and prevent breathing.
Atencion: Mantener alejado de los ninos pequenos.
Se puede adherir a la nariz y boca e impedir la respiracion. "
But the Spanish version adds,
"Esta bolsa no es juguete,"
a fact not given to English speakers.

No es juguete.
No es un chiste.
Se puede adherir e
impedir la respiracion
even for adults.

Just a note

2008-08-17T19:21:00.002-05:00

This is just a note to those of you who read my blog. Thank you for keeping up with my poetry, published and unpublished, and for leaving a message now and then.

Bottom line: I need your prayers. I can't go into a lot of detail, but a lot of very stressful things have happened as of late, and I'm sinking fast. Your prayers are greatly appreciated. I am determined to keep my head above water, but sometimes it would be nice to see a boat in sight.

Regards,

me

To Find Words

2008-08-10T16:48:00.004-05:00

There are unspoken utterances here:
the choked half swallowed indefinable emotions,
the “I have no more money left and may go bankrupt”
despair,
or the “she was five years old only yesterday”
regret.
Perhaps the “you are too beautiful to even be near”
love
is the hardest for which to find words.

Black and White Haibun

2008-07-20T21:20:00.003-05:00

He channel surfs though the photographs in his mother's shoebox that he keeps on the top shelf of the closet, the black ink of her static memories projected on a yellowing white glossy cardstock screen. Aunts, sisters, cousins, classmates in one roomed elementary schools and small county high schools with malt shops down the street and barbershops where men with hats and ties worn in the middle of the day would go and discuss politics and morality. The names of the suspended strangers don't matter. He doesn't need to know them; he only needs to nurse on the comfort that they are always in the same poses, always in the same box, always accessible on that top shelf. He can be certain that black will always be black and white refuses to be anything but white.

In his world, how can he know for sure that the red he sees on the ambulance light is the same color that someone else saw on the cola sign? Colors are far too subjective. Black and white are monochromatic absolutes. For this reason he sits for hours watching the same black and white comedies on television, holding close the sketched images as the winter roars outside.

snow dancing festively
silhouettes of darkened trees
against a charcoal sky

Around the Square

2008-07-20T16:00:00.005-05:00

A vampire walks every night past the inns in Savannah's Lafayette Square, rumor says, down the sidewalks looking for its prey.

"Pray each night before you go to bed," the nanny tells the pajama wrapped boy," that you are forgiven of any darkness." She turns the nightlight on and looks out the window over the square. "You must be filled with light."

"Light weights can't be balanced any more than heavy ones." The student is sipping his tea when he should be doing his homework. He looks out the coffee shop on the square and feels metaphorical. His eyes play with the cracks in the pavement. College restrictions fit tighter than black plastic bracelets. "We all do our best to walk the line here."

Hear the sounds of the man with the briefcase as his Italian leather footfalls click on the sidewalk. He works at the courthouse. He thinks over the face of the little girl victim he saw today, and thinks of the eyes of the woman he is defending. On days like today he wonders if he is a vampire.

spanish moss shadows
dance across the gray pavement
worshipping the moon

Forgiveness

2008-07-19T14:57:00.001-05:00

If it can be done
over and over again
up to
four hundred and ninety times,
I should become well practiced.
If I am bankrupt to
her and him,
clearing the books
of debts owed
should be easy for me.
But to each offense I tie
a rope as it goes into the Holy of Holies,
and each time the slaying begins—
each time it has been in there longer
than I feel safe—
I pull it to its rescue,
before the smiting.
So familiar it is,
so uplifting,
so warm
to the touch.

Paraklausithyron: a triolet

2008-06-21T13:13:00.002-05:00

Never wanting to shut the door,
he merely wanted her to see it closing.
So he stood there hoping she wanted more,
never wanting to shut the door.
He felt the sinking in his core.
He felt his hand push. His side was losing,
never meaning to shut the door.
He merely wanted her to see it closing.

The Old Woman and Her Son at Walmart

2008-06-21T12:06:00.004-05:00

She is at the end of the aisle. Her grown son is patient for awhile as he speaks to her, occasionally glancing at his fellow shoppers. He begins to shift his weight back and forth from foot to foot. “You don’t need children’s folders,” he says as she flips from puppies to kittens, to teenage pop stars.
“I need them,” she says. “I need to put things in them.”
He walks away as if he is moving toward the checkout, but he returns. “You don’t have anything to put in them.”
“Where are the paperclips? I need paperclips.”
Both of his hands are on her shoulders. He tries to calmly push her along, but she is bolted to the end of aisle 19. Exasperated he raises his hands and drops them. “We didn’t come for a stuff on clearance, mother.” His voice narrows to a hiss.
“I have things I need to put in folders,” she says, tottering involuntarily to the cashier.

folders from display
falling to the retail floor
knocked under the shelves

Youthful Arrogance

2008-06-13T19:50:00.005-05:00

I am their teacher, and they are arrogant.
I notice first when they state their opinions
as high school juniors:
Whitman is a poor poet,
Dickens doesn't know how to plot,
Cisneros can't create character,
but Plath touches the soul.
They are so sure of their opinions,
and each one is a young professor grading.

They return after a year at college,
just for a visit with the high schoolers,
full of information on the solutions of life,
how they see through the authorities
past
present
future.
They continue to grade.
Sharing with the youngsters the secrets of
whom to listen to,
whom to ignore,
what freedom is really like
which sins can and have been secretly performed.

And I wonder, as their attitudes repulse me,
at the mercy of an ageless, eternal God
who tolerates my youthful arrogance
as I place on them my presumptuous grade.

Matthew 1968-1970: A Haibun

2008-06-10T21:11:00.001-05:00

originally published in Contemporary Haibun Online

The brother is five and in kindergarten, and by the next morning Matt is gone with no chance for the brother to say, "Thanks for hanging out with me, little brother," or "Catch you later." Just gone like the summer or the circus or lost change. And his father tells him Matt is gone to be with Jesus and he loves him as he carries him from his grandparents back to his house where his mother tells neighbors none of it seems real. He hears cats underneath the house that day, crying in that moaning, chilling way wild cats do, and he thinks it is a baby crying, and he thinks they have hidden Matt somewhere in the back of the house. His friend's parents bring him a giant box of crayons, and he goes outside.

swing set abandoned
wind driven motion
creaking without child

The brother is forty, and he finds Matt in a dream. They stand on a grassy field underneath an oak tree, and they are face to face. Matt is in his late thirties with his hand on the tree, and he is leaning in so much like their father with his round face and full pouting lips, smiling at the corner.

oak tree summer breeze
wind driven motion
creaking without child

The brother apologizes then--in words as cheap and hollow sounding as pennies falling in the washing machine-- apologizes for living, confessing his guilt of survival to Matt as they stand, two adult men, one living, one dead. He will never forget what Matt says to him. "Why are you sorry for me? For over thirty years I have been in the presence of God. What have you done in the last thirty years?"

oak tree summer breeze
wind driven motion
creaking lullaby

A Note to Badger's Parents With Enclosed Check

2008-06-08T10:15:00.004-05:00

We are sorry that our dog slipped away from our daughter.
We are sorry that our dog is a better fighter than yours.
We are sorry about the damage done to your dog whom you love as a child.

But most of all
we are sorry that at the end of the night you have nothing more to love
than a dog.
We are sorry that you can't be loved by a little girl who feels guilty about letting a dog escape her
and who wants nothing more than to curl up between her parents
not at the foot of the bed.

Regards,

Fred's Owners

Titles

2008-06-04T09:33:00.004-05:00

When the band Ocean is Theory put out its first CD, Into the Mouths of Lions, Nick Novak, one of the band, told me that the title was taken from a line I said in class when he took Psychology from me. I was honored. Since the first poem "Out of the Mouths of Babes, Into the Mouths of Lions," leaves the speaker upset and angry with a postmodern world, I felt the title was appropriate. The speaker is young and feels thrown to the lions. In the second poem the speaker sees the sovereignty of Christ, the Lion of Judah, so I felt as if the words of Christ had inspired the speaker so "Out of the Mouths of Lions, into the Mouths of Babes" seemed to fit perfectly. Thanks for asking.

Puzzle

2008-06-03T06:37:00.003-05:00

Have you ever questioned--
a game show host waiting for buzzer--
destiny
or whatever drives us
the engine in the old pickup truck
coughing asthmatically

Have you ever wondered--
beatnik traveling searching yage--
if the sides were clearly defined
or stood rejected in PE
socks askew and shorts dreadfully too long

Have you ever feared--
blank page glowing white traffic sign--
inevitability
or walking on the beach by the ocean
shaking unfinished?

Privacy

2008-05-28T12:12:00.007-05:00

This is a private conversation
my Maker and me.
Please step back out and shut the door.
When He is finished
the door will open
and you may have your time with either of us you choose.
But for now, I have things which would embarrass me if you knew,
but, oddly, seem just fine for someone like the Creative Director of All to know.

Perhaps my revelation
depends on His expectations,
and since He knows I am nothing but pretense,
sharing with Him feels natural.

Getting it

2008-05-24T19:12:00.002-05:00

For those of you who want the full effect of the Dominion poem for this year, read "Out of the Mouths of Babes, Into the Mouths of Lions" and then read "Out of the Mouths of Lions, Into the Mouths of Babes." This will allow you to see the main persona travel through his/her character development.

Out of the Mouths of Lions, Into the Mouths of Babes

2008-05-24T02:30:00.009-05:00

Over this poetry, anyday.

I figured out I was driving to my high school after that [sometimes I drive all over the places]. And the next thing I know I was sitting in the woods behind the building. I was sitting there, somewhere before Dewhurst Dip. I was actually sitting on the ground, my hands grabbing in the pine straw like pulling the hair from Gaia herself. And I realized how old it felt to be so young, and I was tired to the root of me.

And I was thinking, "If a tree falls in this wood, and no one is there to hear it, would it make a noise?" And if I were to go, if I were to leave this place and move on, if I were to do the grownup thing, collegiate thing and move on, to pack up my things and move out would anyone hear...
...
...
...
me?

I sat under a tree [a tree, not a vine; vines dry up], I think it was juniper, and I said, "I am not better than my fathers" [or at least those graduates in the pictures in the hallway]. All I wanted was one angel. Elijah got an angel, and for four years I have prepared to kill my professors of Baal. I'll even take a side of wind or earthquake.

The Greeks had a God, Agnostos Theos.
Agnostos Theos, be known to me now.
For I face a battle and I have misplaced my sword
and I cannot see the forest for the trees falling with no one to hear them,
and I cannot make a noise.
And I cannot get past...
...
...
...
me.

All I wanted was one angel, not even a pretty one like at Christmas, one angel to tell me to wake up and eat. The woods were growing dark and deep, and as I looked, through my teary squinted eyes, I saw a light, a glow, a godly triangle hovering.

We all have at least one memory in common. I think its kind of like a heaven. Remember smooth,
clean sheets,
crisp cool,
tucked in,
smoothed down by a mother's hand.
Remember the inviting freshness of new.
I do.

When I was young before the internet was born,

I drew Jesus with my eight crayons.

Not Arian Jesus like the flannelgraph,

or even middle eastern Jesus,

but sienna stick figure God became flesh Jesus,

my first graven image, my first attempt to simplify

Someone so complex and simple.

Oh, so the light,
my seraphic light,
was the light in the hallway of the school in front of me.
And when I cleared my eyes, I saw them:
Two adults,
one kid,
sillouette etched on the glass of the door.

They were, I think they were, praying. They were together. Maybe a teacher and a parent, or a parent, and administration, or two parents, or I don't know really, and I'm not sure I care because I got it.

And I fell awake and fed on this.

So thank you my Savior,
Your sovereign behavior
taught me the hope of fresh starts and new beginnings
the totality of morality,
the fidelity of humility,
the exaltation of the Known God in whom I place my trust.
Give me stability,
my gracious deity,
over this poetry
any day.

Basic Rules of Christian Creativity

2008-05-15T20:14:00.004-05:00

1. God uses emotional extremes to create art.
2. Prayer increases creativity in that it feeds the Spirit.
3. Art is a reflection of the Creator.
4. Art may not always be attractive, but it is always aesthetic.
4. Art made by Christians should edify the Body of Christ.
5. Because of the lack of cultural and artistic awareness in our present society, art will often threaten, anger, or confuse members of the Body of Christ.
6. The Christian artist should be patient in communicating art to the Body of Christ.

Memories of Death

2008-05-15T18:54:00.006-05:00

And then death came to the door
and stood outside
looking in
and laughed from a distance.
The host looked him in the face
and wanted him to enter
wanted him to stop
wanted the carriage to race
to the cornice but a mound.

But there was more in the house to be done.
There was a closing of the door
and the would be guest
drove on
and the period became a comma...
or maybe an ellipsis.

Haiku for my mother-in-law

2008-05-08T21:35:00.001-05:00

Had she been Hera,
Or at the least Endora,
I would now be dead.

Out of the Mouths of Babes, Into the Mouths of Lions

2008-05-04T17:49:00.018-05:00

originally published in Clockwise Cat

So I'm driving from Town Center to the Square when it hits me [my mind races when I drive, maybe it was too much tea or maybe too much studying for exams, or maybe it was seeing my pastor flirting with the barista at Starbucks™]. All of a sudden every turn in the road-- every casual, causal, conclusive, concave decision, every left turn right turn choice-- feels like a moral dilemma.

And if every choice is a moral one when a tree falls in the forest on my head which hurts from staying up all night with my books open and my mind closed [shut tight], won't nothing get in, and I let all my windows down.

The fifty year old hippie driving the car next to me [doughy men should not wear t-shirts as fashion] seems to make me think of Jason's father who works out and has a fauxhawk because he's scared of being forty-five and who says, "we all have our agendas" as if being seventeen and naive is something we need to set outside for the garbage man like the broken springed sofa with the scratchy fabric. "One man's casuistry is another man's clever argument" even if it's up a tree in the forest.

Forgive me if I'm inappropriate, if my flipped tie and skirt plaid pattern is askew, but when I drive along and see the jeep parked at Walmart™ with the door left open [rushed to a sale on flip flops, I guess] should I stop and close it? When I'm outta here are there people to hear the noises in the forest?

I told you my mind races and is all over places.

I saw a cute cartoon on a graduation card with Snoopy and his graduation hat [I mean what do they call it--something mortar] anyway, he was carrying a suitcase, but I don't remember the message cause I got distracted by the "Hang in there, Baby" kitty card in the get well section. Funny, the get well section right next to the graduation section. So the stories blur, and if a graduate has an idea and there's no one there to hear it will it make a noise?

Well, the story ends when I get pulled over by the County cop, and I don't even beg for grace cause I'm kinda glad that there are things like the law that stand up and fight for principles. And if there was a speed limit in the forest and no one was there to see it...The red lights and green lights and speed limits aren't up for negotiations or relativity. When I speed I can bet on that little slip of yellow paper, and when I sign it, I feel, well, almost spiritual in my guilt, but he says it really doesn't mean I'm guilty. And I remember a man in an interview on death row who said, "Baby, you can't have a pardon if you don't know the law."

So thank you, my brothas,
my artistic mothas
who taught me of disposable Bic™ morality
the fatality of fertility,
the futility of purity,
the expiration of fidelity to God in whom we trust.
Give me stability
over this poetry
any day.

Sometimes Morality

2008-04-02T10:54:00.011-05:00

Sometimes morality seems like a fashion,
A tie too narrow
on the fat man's neck
at the gallows.

Or the fine print at the bottom of the ad.
So microscopic it looks like a steady line.

He may be an arrogant old man for judging people's motives,
or maybe he's merely a farmer picking fruit.

When will the deus ex machina
appear for the resolution?

When can we move from this cycle into the next?

When will the whimper call us gently through the garden
to the one flower

And Beatrice feed us from her kitchen?

Easter Sunday

2008-03-23T09:10:00.004-05:00

How a Man Writes Poetry

2008-03-09T19:45:00.008-05:00

Brutal, barbaric,
twisting beams of language, syntax, and blood
into iron crafted metaphor.
Blundering
over the precision of delicate syncopation.
Fueled by passion,
savage, primitive,
thrusting the seeds of meaning and diction from cradled warmth
where he holds life outside of himself.

Or sometimes cautiously seductive,
careful, tender,
exploring with prayerful lips
and sculpting touch
each ironic curve of stanza which
swells to the touch
in response to his worship.
Selfishly coaxing with his tongue each
letter to perfect form.

Or guiding gently,
large calloused hands
embracing the tiny fingers
of his creation
as it lies in sleep next to his heart.
This is why only real men write poetry.

Stars

2008-02-24T19:44:00.007-05:00

When he was a little suburban magi,
swadled in a hand sewn hair shirt of grade school worry,
he listened to the train coo to him in the distance
as it moved, camel-like, brooding with worries of its own,
leaving him to wish upon the stars that glimmered just outside his window,
little silver sticker stars waiting for first grade wishes.

This modern, noiseless world
is not dark enough for wishing upon those stars.
He cannot see them.
He is thankful for the bright city lights of adult joy,
but sometimes he longs for cherished childhood pain
to show him the pinhole beams from infinity.

Sanitized Christ

2008-02-01T16:27:00.000-05:00

Give me the sanitized christ
the hands clean christ
the Arian, pretty
not dirtied christ
who smells of clean baby beds
no crying he makes
and starry angels
the flannelgraph christ with his Roman nose
and the palms not showing

because the love
is too painful
the surgery necessary
by hands rough and soiled
is anesthesialess
and I cannot accept
the truth
be told
or swallow the elemental medicine down.

Carnage

2008-01-31T17:44:00.001-05:00

"They eat each
other
here,"
I heard the whisper bouncing off
sterile walls,
the sacred walls of orthodoxy and
contempt, and I thought they meant
something like the Lord's Supper or
the Eucharist, if I weren't so better than they,
but that wouldn't be right
--not eat each other, that would be eat Him,
but I distinctly heard "each other,"
and I'm not even sure who whispered it, because no one was looking at me, it was just there, ready to be absorbed in the carpet going down the aisle.

Cannibalism
from Spanish Canibalis, name (as recorded by Christopher Columbus) of the allegedly cannibalistic Caribs of Cuba and Haiti.
Oral Sadism

Vultures feed on the dead,
but the God's children feed on the living.

I took my seat, ready to bend my knees
sure to become one of them
who craves soul, and blood,
and a bit of reputation.

Melancholia

2008-01-24T20:23:00.000-05:00

Clever culinary sanity and I
add events slowly to balance
chemicals
and soul,
seasoning my thoughts
with lithium salts,
wondering how much is me
and how much is added
when stirring the mixture
and how much of it taste can tell.

I race against madness
through
the woods
of doubt,
unsure which
victor would be the most worthy,
wondering if there is a difference,
and afraid
that the man-made me
wins over the natural me
everytime or
that I like it that way.

Need

2007-12-17T02:23:00.000-05:00

I need you, my Christ,
Not for the stillness you breath into me,
Great Lion of Judah
Who infuses senseless sand with Meaning.
I need you because

The schoolmaster has met with me,
Has held me after school,
Has tutored me,
And has shown me that I am failing.

I bow at your feet, King of All,
Not for the beauty of You
Who walked across Jerusalem and my soul.
I need you because

I am feasting
On transgression that I would love to call original,
But, truth be told, that is owned
And savored,
The rotting morsels of last week's banquet,
Torn gristle and meat.

More primitive than any manger blessed by your sacred head,
Is the home I offer you now within me.

I need you, Christ of All,
Because I want
Because I
Because no matter
How hard I try
The poem always begins with I.

Dion's Therapy Appointment

2007-12-16T07:52:00.000-05:00

Somewhere down underneath the cushions of the couch of existence
are the tiny coins of happiness,
the left over tissues of abandoned grief.

Somewhere, lying on that divan of introspection,
Dionysus, the only god with a drinking problem,
has his therapy.

"When did you first feel the expectations of pleasure

[the Merrythanksgivingrockwelllexus
inthedrivewaywhitepicketfenceofitall]

were too much?"
Apollo asks, sitting with his steno pad.
The patient shrugs the answer.
This is the Olympian Court Mandated therapy.

The unfairness of it all--
death of mother at father's hand,
father's attempts to mother him,
subsequent abandonment by father--
"I wanted life to be simpler.
It's not fair that this is all there is.
Why can't it be more comfortable?"
He sips a martini.

"Patient level of entitlement increased,"
jots the Counselor
as he checks the time on the sundial.

The Deepest

2007-12-14T14:31:00.001-05:00

She wanted to shake inside,
A separation of soul and body,
The carbon paper slipping under the original.

As she sat on the bathroom floor,
Water running in the tub,
She missed hurt the most.

She wanted the juice back in the rind.
She wanted Pain, Terror, Agony
Something.

They say black is the combination of all colors when drawn,
But the absence of all colors in light.
Maybe it's just perspective.

Have you ever wished for something so badly
and gotten it?
And hated it?

Release
Valve
Open

She wanted to capture sanguinity.
She wanted a vampire to kiss her and extract
The chaotic void and create
A garden of newness.

And this is why she cuts herself.

Open

2007-12-08T11:02:00.001-05:00

Sometimes he feels that if an autopsy were done on him now,
If he were cut open like a package left at the door,
He would be all packing peanuts, and strips of old newspapers
And a tiny little globe of the Holy Ghost,
As if the Father packed the gift in a too big package.

The expanse of his emptiness demands to be filled,
And his prayer is that Enough would eliminate the Clutter
Of Nothing, that the manna collected in advance would not be missed.

Diamonds are For Never

2007-11-24T21:37:00.001-05:00

Like the handsome young man on that commercial,
I want to slip a string of diamonds around your neck while you sleep,
Accompanied by the sophisticated acoustic music of a female singer.
But knowing me, the clasp would catch on the headboard,
And you would wake up and panic at seeing me staring up close in your face,
And you would feel a choking sensation against your neck,
And you would jerk,
Knocking the painting above you off the wall
On to your head,
Which would bleed.

And so, my darling, I will not give you diamonds.
I will merely hold you close
And memorize the steady beat of your breaths--
The pulse of my sanity--
As you dream nervelessly composed.

Resignation

2007-11-22T15:44:00.001-05:00

Divorce is a chilling word
like Cancer or
Audit or
Never,
a lawyer’s word, like
Dissolution,
a word of packing up,
shutting down,
pulling the plug.
It is a word unanticipated,
bitter on the tongue.
Divorce is an option
thrown on the table
and then regretted,
like Suicide or
Bankruptcy,
by those who vowed they wouldn’t.

The Sun is Yellow Crayon

2007-11-18T11:04:00.000-05:00

She is eight, and she has learned of planets, moons, and stars at the planetarium. Universes so big that the Milky Way is only a grain of sand inside the cosmic beach. Stars--red, dying, bigger than the sun or blue, newborn, younger than the sun--are so big they filled the entire projection screen.
She shares with her father, who was not at the planetarium, and he is proud of what she has learned, the news of freshly discovered science that excites her as much as the knowledge from the tree in the garden: the spinning grandness of creation, the brightness of burning steaming gasses whose light may reach us long after the redness fades.
But he wonders. She is learning more and more about our world. Now that the truth is known, as great as the truth may be, will the sun, when she draws it, still be a face with a smile?

Fred Baker

2007-11-18T10:47:00.001-05:00

The Obituary
Fred L. Baker, 70, of Marietta, died Sunday, Nov. 10, 2007. No services are planned. Survivors include one sister, Wilma J. Baker of Georgetown, Tenn.

From Wilma
When we were young and running under trees
That guard the silent musings in the square,
We never thought our childhood hedged with ease
Would overgrow the curb 'till no one cared.

And now the day should be when I should mourn,
A minister should, standing o'er your head
The final sermon read whic-

From Fred
There is no need for this. It can stop, my sister. No need for words at the end. It is only you now. I never liked services on Sunday that we forgot by Friday when the beer flowed thicker than communion wine. Just as I lived, so I like it. The fires will burn me down to who I am. And those who care will care enough to say goodbye before passing on.

The Lady Lucifer

2007-11-01T20:18:00.001-05:00

The silky smooth scales,
Shimmering shards of emerald
And deep black blues
Reflect the victim’s face
In hypnotic iridescence so that there is no noticeable fear.
So close she crawls that she can munch the heal
As he lusts.
The tingle of tooth on flesh.
She is a vampire with a teacup,
Blood leaving lipstick marks just below
The cup’s frenulum.
Her androgenous gargoyle wings of
Sex and Pride meeting at the point of passion,
Prickle with sensual anticipation
Before the ravishing.
Nothing is sweeter than the fruit of innocence.

She has no peace to offer,
No promises to keep throughout eternity.
Only a certain security which comes from self reliance.
And if she lies,
It is a mesmerizing dream
More comforting than truth:
She is the stronger master.
She does not require belief.
Served by default,
She anesthetizes with the calming pain of pleasure.

The morning she gave birth to heroes,
When rebellion became valor,
She did not fall;
She plunged.
For there are absolutes and
She is They.

Lying Down

2007-10-14T19:38:00.000-05:00

I have a friend--I knew her first in elementary school
When we were both new to making up stories--
Who told me to "lie up."
"People ‘lie down’ when they lie about their ages,
Saying they're thirty when they're forty. And they look
So bad for thirty."

The image appeared to me: a middle-aged, sun-wrinkled, bleach-blonde
Tennis-mother, her skirt revealing age spots splattering
Across boney legs as her botox hungry face flirts with the
Sculpted instructor.

My friend swept a strand of red hair from her forehead
And looked at her reflection in the store window.

"I lie up. When I turned forty, I told people
I was forty-eight, and they said how great
I looked for my age."

"So I should say I'm eighty when I'm fifty,"
I took myself half-seriously.

"No, that’s silly. The only lies that people believe
Are the ones that are close to the truth."

That’s what I’d learned long ago.
I think I was taught by a very dark tutor.
A lie is most believed when it best mimics the truth.

Especially the ones we tell ourselves.

Black and White

2007-09-30T19:57:00.000-05:00

He would channel surf though the photographs in his mother's shoebox that he kept on the top shelf of the closet, the black ink of her static memories projected on a yellowing white glossy cardstock screen. Aunts, sisters, cousins, classmates in one roomed elementary schools and small county high schools with malt shops down the street and barbershops where men with hats and ties worn in the middle of the day would go and discuss politics and morality. The names of the suspended strangers didn't matter. He didn't need to know them; he only needed to nurse on the comfort that they were always in the same poses, always in the same box, always accessible on that top shelf. He could be certain that black would always be black and white refused to be anything but white. In his world, how could he know for sure that the red he saw on the ambulance light was the same colour that someone else saw on the cola sign? Colours were far too subjective. Black and white were monochromatic absolutes. For this reason he could sit for hours watching the same black and white comedies on television, holding close the sketched images drawn before colour muddled our thoughts.

On the Way Home

2007-09-30T19:54:00.003-05:00

Christopher Drywell, age 47, sitting in his Lexus in the middle of Georgia 400,
wondered if the traffic would ever move any faster than the 2-5 miles per hour it was creeping now,
wondered if the traffic girl on Station 109.7 StarFM sounded so cheerful because she was getting a foot massage from a hunky Latino custodian named Raul,
wondered if the thoughts he caressed while looking at his secretary would constitute adultery,
wondered how old Felix in accounting was,
wondered if Felix in accounting worked out,
wondered if Felix in accounting was gay,
wondered if the game would be rained out,
wondered if the person in the car in front of him realized that the candidate on their bumper sticker had lost in the last election,
wondered if that candidate, fresh from scandal, regretted having run,
wondered if he smoked a cigarette in the car with the window open would his wife would be able to smell it later,
wondered if he had an affair, would his wife know,
wondered if he had an affair, if his wife would really care,
wondered if the Mexican construction worker on the side of the road ever felt trapped.

Around the Square

2007-09-29T18:23:00.001-05:00

A vampire walks every night past the inns in Savannah's Lafayette square, rumor says, down the sidewalks looking for its pray each night before you go to bed that you are cleared from any darkness and recreated with light weights can't be balanced any more than the heavy ones. We all do our best to walk the line hear the sounds of the man with the briefcase as his footfalls sound on the pavement. He works over there at the courthouse, and he knows he's

A Deliberate Love

2007-09-27T20:35:00.001-05:00

Yours is a deliberate love,
No frivolous flirtation,
But premeditated conquest
Based on my need
And Your autonomy.

Before forever on the landscape
Of my sin—the valleys and the canyons—
Your blueprint was formed,
A detailed drafted redemption.

Unlearned knowledge of my soul’s texture,
Felt with each caress made—
Sometimes tenderly, sometimes severely—
Frightens, Costly Lover.
And the ignoble pursued kneels to cry.

When Love Was Scratch and Sniff

2007-09-16T08:38:00.002-05:00

There was a time when all was instinct,
Chemical responses firing like gangs in the night
Not caring who was bloodied by savage passions.

And there was a time....
Much later…
When he coveted the sparkling rhinestone,
When the pretty box with its shiny foil papers
Still meant more to him
Than the present.

He met three people who changed his life:
A woman, 40, who thought she was 20;
A man, 95, who was happy that he was;
And a boy, 5, enjoying pretend.

Tired of pretending,
Tired of breathing in past normal inhalation
To reach his unattainable youthfulness,
He bought a size larger pants.
Just one size so that they could devour his waist
Rather than nibble at his hips.
He wasn’t really fooling anyone anyway.

When love was scratch and sniff,
Sonnets were used as bargains for sex,
Tin was worshipped as if it was silver,
And plastic was praised for its strength.

But soon the tastes advance
Far past the fast food arches,
And life permits us moments,
Just before the end,
To sit and sip our tea.

For Sean

2007-08-30T15:13:00.001-05:00

There he bows,
Weak from his fast,
Dressed in white,
And soon the colors of blood and earth will follow.
His life from this point is the honor he keeps
And the purity he holds is the banner with which he leads.

The games of the pages are over.
The servitude of the squire is a recent memory.
Now the battle is his.
There will be leading by a hand on a page’s shoulder,
Or a quiet ride on horseback.
There will be leading by battle, too:
The grisly severing of tendon from sinew.
The dreaded orphaning of the unseen.
The armament dreads the inevitable.
The knight must swallow the fear.

As one whose sword is tarnished
From blood of battles long forgotten,
I pass these words to you:

A soldier is a soldier until he retires.
A knight is a knight until he dies.

A Request

2007-08-28T20:11:00.000-05:00

Unlike me,
I am begging forgiveness.
I read Romans 1,
But did not go on to Romans 2.
I danced judgmentally on the grave of your sins
While resuscitating mine until they lived on infamously.
Wiping the slate clean for myself,
I kept record of your wrongs.
I did not believe all things.
Now I beg for grace.

You would be within your rights—
Rights I took pride in denying you—
To judge me by the same standards I judged you.
I deserve to have my sanctimonious hands nailed
To the cross I hewed myself out of pew-bench pine.
And I would not voice a defense if you brought my offense
Up on judgment day.

Gracious, He forgives us both,
But it was I who splashed in that grace
While assuming you had chosen the shore
When actually you had learned to swim.

Shelling Peas

2007-08-26T16:37:00.002-05:00

They sat in the breeze of the window unit air conditioning
That made a rattle throughout the house,
And father and son watched television
As they shelled peas on a hot summer day.
Comfortable in their frayed cushioned armchairs in front of a black and white tv.
The routine was efficient:
1.Snap the top off.
2.Pull down like a zipper.
3.Peel open the sides of the pod.
4.Run your thumb along the inside flicking the peas into the bowl.
5.Keep the empty hulls in your hand as you begin again.
6.When you have several empty hulls in hand, throw them in the brown paper bag at your feet.
7.Dump the hulls in the compost pile when the bag is filled.
8.Blanche the peas in boiling water so that they do not grow roots when they are placed in the freezer.

Sometimes they listened to the din of the television.
Sometimes they listened to their own internal din.
They sometimes spoke at each other—
To answer a quiz show question or to comment on a sitcom plot.
Shelling peas was largely a practice in isolation.

As a son, I wish it had been as easy as shelling with us.
I wish I could have, or would have,
Peeled open my pod for you to see.
Even if you had blanched
My ideas in anger.
At least you would have seen them.
But reaching the inside
Involves breaking off the top,
And that can be painful to a boy of ten.
Or thirteen.
Or nineteen.
Or thirty.

And the compost pile,
Although nurturing of so much life,
Seems rancid and dead when you’re so green.

Wash and Wear

2007-08-24T19:16:00.001-05:00

It is a mosaic made of linoleum,
This faith of ours,
The gospel made palatable by designer coffee
And songs sung in our range in major keys.
It is a wash and wear creed we chant.

Some feel it’s the way religion should be,
A doctrine of practicality.
The dusty sandals of ancient Jews
Refitted into more stylish shoes.
Prayer’s a fine and fitting place
When a smile is spread across my face.

Church on a billboard,
Salvation on a screen.

Faith of our Fathers, growing dim
All but extinguished…
But very fun.

When the magi came,
Did they sell tickets?

“You gave it all for me, Lord,
To bring me glory.
Help me forever tell the story.”

“When the Son of Man returns,
Will there be any faithful?”

“ ‘Come into my heart, Lord Jesus
Because it’s easier than getting up myself.”

“Suffer the little children...”

“I claim it. "

“I blame it.”

Poetic License

2007-08-19T17:16:00.001-05:00

They welcomed me in.
And we sat and sipped tea and coffee
And talked about my poetry,
And how I was educated in English,
But not too educated.
We talked about under-appreciation of the artist
And how modern television saps up too much modern time.
And they said they had read some of my “pieces”
(The one on Plath and the biblical one they loved),
And I felt like the long lost brother that they had found
And had accepted as if he never spent time feeding the pigs.

And then I made a mistake.
Like a belch during an important date with the lover you’ve wanted to impress,
I flatulated that I must be one of the few politically conservative poets in Atlanta
And I was impressed that they would rub elbows
With such a fundamentalist.

The round gay poet smiled nervously,
And the beautiful anti-war lesbian shifted until her back was toward me.
And I felt for not the first time how intolerant the tolerant can be.
And it felt wonderful.

The Apostles

2007-07-25T20:51:00.000-05:00

I, at 23, drove, late at night, to help Him, a friend.
I barely knew Him really, a friend of a friend.
My Black Friend.
He needed money, He said, for His brother’s cold medicine.
So I drove downtown at eleven at night with the only money I had in my wallet,
Twelve dollars.
I drove to the middle of the worst part of the projects in Savannah, Georgia,
A place where, I had been told by my family, skinny white boys like me were hated.
With twelve dollars.
I was going to help Him, my black friend, with my twelve dollars.
I was his missionary.

As I drove slowly on his street, looking for Him or His brother,
They surrounded my car,
Seven dark giants of the ghetto, defenders of their properties:
Two on each side, two in front of me, one behind.

I would die here.
And inside They would find no drugs,
No money, nothing of my whiteness but twelve dollars.
And for twelve dollars and a mission I would die.

They roared at me to roll the window down,
And I refused.
“I can hear you fine from here.”
Even my words sounded pasty, pale.
The shouts were louder.
I could hear the kettle being stirred
And the chants beginning.
I silently awaited the attack,
My grip turned white on the black leather wheel.
Was this all my life was to be?
My light was darkness, and oh, how great my darkness was.

Then the water parted.
As suddenly as They had appeared,
They backed away,
Opening like a railway guard,
Willing to let me pass.
To find my friend,
To give Him my money.

I never saw Him after that night.
Was the money used for cold medicine?
Was His brother even sick?
Did He even have a brother?
Were They my enemies?
Were They warning me?
Did They want my money?
Or my white blood?

I will never know the truth about that night.
I will never know the sides or the boundaries.
I will never be able to divide the gray
Into shades of black and white.

A Psalm of a Child of Japheth

2007-07-12T01:55:00.000-05:00

I wish I could write without using the word “I,”
But it towers in front of me like the dumpster
That blocks my view of the lake and trees.
So I will make my feeble attempt to climb the sycamore
And look over it,
And sing to You my psalm.

Unto You, oh Lord, will I sing.
Please help me see the unworthiness of me.
I am the wrapper, discarded.
I am the mongrel brought from the pound,
Cleaned and brushed,
Allowed to sleep on the foot of the bed.
I am the son’s murderer embraced by the father
While the weapon is still in my hand.
You are the son, looking up with a tear.

It is difficult at times to talk to One who defines love.
It is painful to stand with hands soiled by my sacrifice of fruits
And the blood of my brother,
And see the pain I have caused.

Unto You, oh Lord, will I sing.
For now.

My Grandfather Poem

2007-06-28T19:47:00.001-05:00

Every poet writes a grandfather poem.

This is mine.

When you were orphaned,

Did you feel like the seed

You so often dropped in the ground

As a farm child?

Did you cry at night motherless

In an unlit room?

(Sometimes I do.)

Were you angry

That you couldn’t go to school

Past the fourth grade because

You had to earn your keep?

(I often complained about schoolwork.)

When you were fourteen and you said,

“I can do anything a man can do,”

To a potential employer,

Did you believe it?

(Sometimes I feel like I try to be

More than I am.)

When did you realize the girl

You met when she was twelve

Was the lovely woman you married

When she was sixteen?

(She still loves you

Even though you’re gone.)

How did you build a house,

A perfectly symmetrical

Piece of modernist artwork,

Without any architectural training?

(You never believed in no.)

Was it frightening to have to feed a family

In the Depression?

(I can't even save on my middle class salary.)

Were you ever scared while guarding

Prisoners for the County’s road crew?

(I get scared of regular people.)

What happened between you and my father?

Why were you so patient with

Me as a young boy of ten when I

“Helped” you with your carpentry?

(I still carry your carpentry tape in my bag.)

When your hands began to shake,

Did you know you were getting sick?

(Some say the Parkinson’s runs in families.)

And most of all,

Why, when reading was such a struggle for you,

Did you read every word of my first story,

Following every word with a shaky finger?

(I think I may already know.)

Bullseye

2007-06-28T19:36:00.000-05:00

My job is a job for the people who have been “hired for this sort of thing.”
Take the things that have been returned to the front of the store
And return them to the location identified for me,
A homecoming of product to metal shelf.
I also collect the ones that have been abandoned throughout the store
When the materialistic urge has passed.
(“I really shouldn’t buy this pair of shoes before payday.
I’ll leave them here in Automotives.”)

I must make sure each box is in single file, side to side,
Lined up across the front.
Each box must stand in a military line,
Connected to each other by their sides,
Creating a smooth exterior,
As if all the boxes were merged into one giant box identity,
Devoid of its own personality:
Uniformed diversity.

This store is a giant animal,
And everyday it is beaten by the little ants that feed on it,
Moving from its tail toward its head.
My small job is to, as unnoticeably as possible,
Re-tail the beast
So that it can fight again tomorrow.

The Unspeakable Sonnet

2007-06-05T10:17:00.000-05:00

∞

↓

♂™

↓

♀™

↓

☼♥

↓

♂©±∞

↓

♂+♀÷∞≠☺

↓

∞

↓

&>

2007-05-28T19:31:00.001-05:00

Btw, I don’t have time

2 chat long 2day.

but I don’t want u 2 feel I don’t care.

IMHO, there is no deserving >

than u, OMG,

and I WTGP w/ u,

but TTTT,

and that’s 1 thing

I have < & <.

The SOS is going on here,

and so there is no need to

update w/ news abt. NE1.

B w/ the peeps

that don’t know u, etc.

Well, cu L8R,

OMG.

TRDMF.

KIT.

Amen.

Argument of the Postmodern Florist

2007-05-14T19:15:00.001-05:00

I prefer the carnation.

Yes, the multifoliate rose is captivating,
But I find its aroma a bit too overpowering.
Carnations, while pedestrian, are unassuming.
The beauty is natural, yet minimalist.
Modern.

Or better yet, I choose a bouquet of various flowers
That will balance out the rose—
All different flowers mingling their colors together,
The way nature intended them to be.
Complimentary.

After all, it takes a bouquet to raise a bud.

Forgotten: a sestina

2007-05-09T11:52:00.000-05:00

written for the DCHS class of 2007

She tried to cool the coffee by a gently blowing as she stirred.
And I focused on her eyes because, of everyone in our class,
Her eyes were the ones that mattered most.
Of all our fellow pundits, she was the one that had the most to say.
“Do you ever think of the corners of time?”
I smiled but stayed quiet, not sure of her meaning.

“You’re probably not getting what I’m meaning,”
She said, “But I’ve been stirred
With these feelings, kind of like regret, for all the time
We’ve spent in class.
I know they teach us well, or at least that’s what they say,
But I wonder if we’ve ignored what matters most.

“Like while we’re sitting in AP Lit. and most
Of us are trying to get to the meaning
Of some poem or what some writer is trying to say,
There’s all this life going on just outside the window, this life stirred
By nature—I don’t know—a bee on a flower or something our class
Would never see. Maybe the slow eroding of a creek bank over time.”

And I looked away at about that time
Into the corner of the room, probably one that was ignored the most.
Sipping my coffee, and wrapped in philosophy, I felt so filled with class,
Like a poet in some artsy café, groping for intense but elusive meaning.
I think I understood her words, and my pride was stirred
Although I wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“When do those things happen?” she went on to say.
“We don’t see them. We look over them all the time.
But even though they aren’t the events that have us stirred
With strong emotions, they are the ones that happen the most.
Maybe they are the ones where only God provides the meaning.
They are the ones we don’t see while we’re in class.”

And as I sat there thinking of my paper for Lit. Class
I noticed in that corner an ant, but I didn’t say
Anything. I just thought about its meaning
As it crawled up the wall ignored in the crevice of the corner of time.
And suddenly I knew the memories I wanted to preserve the most,
And I knew that more than coffee had been stirred.

Stirred by dreams and scarred by hope, I move on from my class.
I am unsure of most of what I say,
But remember the forgotten corners of time, the backdrop that provides for us the meaning.

Possible Answers to Prayer

2007-05-06T11:33:00.000-05:00

by Scott Cairns

Your petitions—though they continue to bear

just the one signature—have been duly recorded.

Your anxieties—despite their constant,

relatively narrow scope and inadvertent

entertainment value—nonetheless serve

to bring your person vividly to mind.

Your repentance—all but obscured beneath

a burgeoning, yellow fog of frankly more

conspicuous resentment—is sufficient.

Your intermittent concern for the sick,

the suffering, the needy poor is sometimes

recognizable to me, if not to them.

Your angers, your zeal, your lipsmackingly

righteous indignation toward the many

whose habits and sympathies offend you—

these must burn away before you’ll apprehend

how near I am, with what fervor I adore

precisely these, the several who rouse your passions.

Glass Panic

2007-04-12T17:13:00.001-05:00

He remembered—or he thought he remembered
maybe he just remembered the stories—
the time when he was two and was locked in the car
the faces of giants at every angle trying to set him free
his mother screaming silently just outside the glass—
fear confusion heat—
they broke the glass but it didn’t shatter—
put your head down cover your face baby—
all the pieces stayed together
a transparent jigsaw puzzle
the man punched it and broke through
the air came in
cool.

He remembered it for only a second at the sink
—I’m cracking up spinning out—
metaphors come to the insane
there was no logic here
—hold my breath no breathe—
all he had to do was the dishes
he fell to the floor
plate after plate fell
hurled their china shards in a spiral across the yellow linoleum
red dots across the sunny yellow—
he had wanted hard wood but—
Someone had to get in
past the panic
punch through
—insignificant so major—
Jesus come cool inside

She held his head
to keep glass
from
shattering

not knowing
it had to break
to let in air.

Theology

2007-04-07T16:30:00.000-05:00

originally published in Lost Beat Poetry

Satan:
If I knew then what I know now,
I would still defy them,
Shaking my fist at the one who
Birthed and bound me,
Oedipus to his Laius.
Jocasta freedom was my lover.
And the hatred he bore toward me…

“I am Love” and in the same breath,
“I am a Jealous God,”
The politician creator spoke.

And I laughed as he launched me
Through time and space.

Michael:
There are some things worth fighting for
That run deeper than brotherhood.
You were the light,
The luminous one by which I saw to fight.
Made of the same cosmic molecules as I,
You took a road forbidden.

And I cried as you fell
Through time and space.

Abraham's Sky

2007-03-29T11:51:00.000-05:00

from Ain't Milton: a chapbook of poetry

And He took him outside and said, "Now look toward the heavens, and count the stars, if you are able to count them." And He said to him, "So shall your descendantas be." Genesis 15:5

At that moment,
That present moment touching eternity
When the ancient one peered, invited, into the Eastern sky
And viewed through tears his promised progeny
And saw the stars infinitely spread
Like sand of angel's sandals
Across the carpet night,

At that moment
Did one star shine for me?

Was it a fire primeval quenched
Whose light, from creation's infancy had traveled
Through history's depths to greet the father on that night,
A beacon from an empty void?
Cold.
Dead.
Silent.

Or was his eye distracted
By a maverick,
A comet renegade too rebellioius to revel in the sky,
Abandoning the joyous dance of Heaven
To drink the richness of the muddy soil,
Exchanging ecstasy for pain,
All for dramatic brilliance?

Instead I, his spiritual offspring, hope to be
A flicker
So unperceivably small in the silence of space,
Perhaps in the corner far behind Abraham,
Out of his glance,
A pulsing fragile sliver of light,
A fractured piece of celestial diamond
Content to serve its simple purpose
Of lighting a tiny corridor of Night.