Among the Lampstands

Mother's Day

2011-09-30T13:05:00.000-04:00

אֵ֛יךְ נָפַ֥לְתָּ מִשָּׁמַ֖יִם הֵילֵ֣ל בֶּן־שָׁ֑חַר

Carlawas out running errands,

Debbiewas out for lunch,

Andthe kids were bored.

Theywere inside

Thinkingabout the forbidden

Door.The door on the closet ceiling

Thatled to the upstairs attic.

Theidea caught on.

Therewas unexplored space,

Anunknowable

Thingthat beckoned finding out.

Soup they went,

Upinto the realm of thrills,

Upamong the immortals,

Upto where they found

Cobwebsand old Christmas wreathes.

Then the floor broke out in heaven,

Andthey fell.

Atfirst clinging to rafters

Bytheir armpits,

Andthen falling,

Falling,

And

Hittingthe hard floor of the guest bedroom.

Likefallen angels

Litteredon earth among pieces of paradise,

Wewere laid low in the midst

Ofwhite insulation,

Thepadding from above,

Numberedamong the rebels,

Theaccuser in our hearts,

Thesons of dawn,

Culpablydefined for the rest

Ofour lives

Byour mothers.

2011-09-27T15:15:00.000-04:00

It feels good to know
that praise is not words, but being;
yet I love to write!

2011-09-23T11:35:00.000-04:00

Theforest out back

Twitches inthe rain like a

Scarcelyquickened corpse.

Berlin, 1884

2011-09-20T17:09:00.000-04:00

A few little kids

Formed a club and had a

Treasure hunt.

They had colored

Maps that detailed the lumps

And runs of rivers and mountains,

An “X” on a pile of gold,

On rubber,

On ivory,

And even on some diamonds.

The lines they drew

Cut through the paper and

Pierced the black

Soil underneath.

And the cuts still bleed, and run

Over the oceans and

Down our hands. Yes,

Down our hands.

"Eco-Friendly"

2011-09-13T21:28:00.000-04:00

A group ofash borers decked with

Emeraldsuits have disembarked

The treesthat line a strip of green

AlongsideBusch Corporate Center

InWorthington, Ohio.

Theirinitial deposit of larvae

Quicklyleft gaps in the wood

Market, andpaper crazed hatchlings

Hollowedout even more space for

Businessuntil a total girdling of the

Competitionwas complete.

Finally, aftertwo years of insider

Tradingand excessive forays into sensual

Matters, thebeetle’s blatant materialism

Could be seenfrom the street, with stocks

Of strippedbark gluttonously discarded

At thefoot of bare trees, which,

As if underattack from invasive

Cremationists,had been reduced

To somethingbeyond mere

Ash.

Breakfast Bully

2011-09-12T12:35:00.000-04:00

The cool swagger

Of a pea-sizedspider on the

Windowsill makes me wonder

If itknows that we’re still

Scared.

The Pest

2011-09-07T10:29:00.000-04:00

A klutzycaterpillar slipped and

Fellonto the scarcely moving arm

Ofa nameless creek that braced itself in

Acoulee clad with leprous sycamores,

Sugarmaples, and a dying buckeye tree

Beingworn out with orange.

Thebug was white, tubed, perforated

Withblack spots, its wormy flesh a straightjacket

Forinsanely small and silent squirms and

Writhesthat flung shivers across the

Stream’sdampening skin.

Itspanicked movements mimicked

Thescribbling of an arthritic

Grandparent’ssignature on a birthday card,

Whensomething so big can only be shown

Bya few shaken letters, a few ripples

Traversinga great white plain

Ofblankness

Withoutthe aid of capable hands,

Arms,or legs.

I pitythe insect, but not the pest,

Forits groans are not heard or felt, but seen,

Andits gentle whittling of water

Betrays the fact that it is dying
To grow limbs,or better yet,

Tococoon and fly away.

Dear God

2011-09-02T08:44:00.002-04:00

Be our iconoclast,

Shatter our pornographic mind.

Take that stick,

And break

Those empty piñatas of naked bodies.

Disappointment

2011-09-01T11:08:00.003-04:00

Shefell asleep under a blanket of red

uponthe shoulder’s bony stretch, her face

pointingtoward woods a stone’s throw away,

herendless gaze bounding up a slope to the wood
as rapid as my car passing her fate.

Explicit Hope

2011-09-01T10:29:00.001-04:00

If you were still dead in the stomach of some Judean rock,

Then I would embalm the earth in search of you.

I would exhume your grave,

Unravel your linens,

Shave off your skin,

Crack open your skull,

And scoop out your brain,

Cut out your heart,

Sever your limbs,

Rip out your lungs,

And slice off your tongue.

I would desecrate your corpse

To become your surrogate,

Because I’m that sick and desperate for life.

Beach Philosophy

2011-08-23T11:40:00.003-04:00

What I really found after days of musing,

Of pontificating from a beach chair, ex cathedra,

Concerning the truth and the good,

After countless hours spent sensing the shifts in my tidal soul

As it vacillated between the animal and the divine,

Between the lows and the highs, I still seemed unable to pinpoint

The position of my somewhat schizophrenic life.

But, after staring off into the eternal line of the Atlantic’s horizon,

And thinking for a good chunk of time that the clouds and sky were really

Just wallpaper plastered on the back of a cosmic billboard that reads,

“Caution: Fragile,” from the other side,

After gawking at copious pods of porpoises ruining class

For schools of bait fish, and fending off sharks by preemptively

Urinating all about myself,

After meticulously inspecting my body’s shape as it appeared in a

Picture that was snapped during an innocent game of paddle ball,

I noticed, as I now recall, that the patch of hair at the small of my back

Looks something like an extended butt crack.

And so, without thought, without ideas,

Set only with the shock of flippant humility,

I discovered a maxim of life on that sandy beach:

Before attempting to plumb the depths of heaven,

Philosophers should spend more time examining

Their own ass, just like me.

The Catch

2011-08-17T21:57:00.004-04:00

I swear I saw a pelican

drop and pierce the ocean’s side, and then,

rising up, clutching water

and life.

2011-07-09T12:39:00.003-04:00

There is nothing worse
than seeing a used condom
in the woods out back.

2011-07-09T12:38:00.001-04:00

Two chubby bulldogs sniff
around the yard next door
and poop.

2011-07-09T12:36:00.001-04:00

A pair of plump ants race
down the trunk of a stoic walnut tree.

There's something about it
that tickles me.

Spring

2011-05-18T17:38:00.006-04:00

Showers, like the day
my ancient Mother's water

broke upon my head.

Fraction

2011-03-24T13:49:00.001-04:00

A man holds up some bread.

He breaks the bread.

I walk up to the man.

I make a throne with my hands.

The bread comes down to sit.
Do I swallow and cherish,

Or betray with a kiss?

Eden

2011-03-04T14:38:00.010-05:00

There weretoo many naked men

in thelocker room today. I mean, typically

I canhandle one or two exposed men lumbering

aroundbecause they’re easily avoidable and there’s

not enoughof them to get really organized in

theirnudity.

So whenthere’s just a pair of them, I keep my head

down andduck into corners and cubbies, hiding
my mind from anything less than civilized.

But eventhis is risky.

One time Ithought I found some refuge, some place

out ofview from both ends,

but thenthis old guy hulked up next to me,

boxed mein, and dropped his shorts.

Let’s justsay it took me five minutes to tie my shoes.

Yes,that’s good advice. Tie your shoes. Over and

over again.Use double knots so they’re harder to untie and

it lookslike you’re seriously into something else.

Listen tome: You have to be serious.

They willjoke around, and smile, and even gloat over their

barrel-likebellies, but you are serious.

You can’tsmile.

You’re notenjoying anything, are you?

So don’tsmile.

They’rethe ones who can do that.

Don’t evenlook up.

That wouldonly affirm their state of undress.

And anotherthing: avoid the scales at all costs.

I mean it.

Naked massgravitates to that place.

I don’tknow what it is.

Maybe theythink that trimming off some clothes

will pulltheir weight down 2-4 pounds.

Maybe foronce they’re just trying to act serious

about theshape of their naked bodies.

But that’snot possible.

Naked isnaked, and it’s sure not serious.

In fact, it’sa big hoax that people who let themselves go

play oninnocent bystanders like you and me.

So when I comeacross a stripped majority in

the lockerroom,

I put ontunnel vision and try to ignore the

pastystreaks on my periphery.

It’s tough, though, especially when clouds of

showersteam cloak their movements like early

morningmist that swirls, then disappears, leaving only

some trees draped with forbidden fruit.

Stop! Don’ttouch that with your eyes!

Didn’t I warnyou? Get serious.

Don’t letthem shake you.

They’realready doing that with skinny towels

in frontof the mirrors.

Just makesome fully clad allies and

be proud ofyour underwear.

But, in spite of this sure fit advice,
I have to confess:

I was revealed today.

I overheardthis kid, about seven years old,

ask hisbrother, “Why are they walking around naked?”

“Dude,” hesays, “it’s a locker room. That’s what theydo.”

And that’swhen it hit me: a hand of envy

slapped against my cheek of contempt.

They are what I want to be; not serious, but naked

and notashamed.

Aquariums

2011-02-17T14:13:00.002-05:00

huddledin the corner of the orthodontist office sits

aglass box with gallons of water caged inside it.

there,slow-moving souls balloon through fluid air,

blowingup their beings through unbroken pants

ofdense-filled shots of air. their jaws crank to

monotonousrhythms in their heads, clashing with fins

thatripple like lanky strips of bed sheets fluffed in the air.

thefake coral and fake pebbles complement a faded background

ofsunken ships. their crew of tired, wide-eyed pirates fight

tomake sense beyond the brief raids on multi-colored flakes,

forgettingeven the smeared faces mirrored on the surrounding

panes.their aimless search flows along, stuck in recurring drifts

throughpresent matter, stricken by plagues of memory loss:

noname, no face, no mission but the hunt for daily bread,

theirworld ever-new, themselves forever lost.

Andso I swim, breathing memories of Shedd Aquarium

OnChicago’s Lake Shore Drive, my oily forehead stuck to

Clear walls as I watch silly clownfish slip through

Nookslike the silver tokens dropped into my favorite arcade.

Orthe Beluga Whales, beloved by all, their mouths upturned in

Permanentsmiles, squealing and trilling as true canaries of the sea.

Iswear one time they even winked at me.

An Image of Humility

2011-01-21T19:41:00.003-05:00

"Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image..."

A man stands, carved, slightly

bent within a single block of wood.

He fills a long rabbinic robe that leaves

his bare feet only a splinter space to breathe.

His left side and back are lined with

veining rings of another life, clotting

in knots as they shade his robe a dark

mahogany, as if covered in bloodstains.

Yet his beard and hair betray no marks

of violence, save for the sharp, surgical

cuts of the exacting artist.

With walnut shaped hands – there seems

to be no cracks between his fingers –

he grips a wooden shaft about the same

height as himself. If not for this embrace,

I would mistake him for some young

Anglo-Saxon king topped with a modest

crown. But now, as I stare into his sunken, off-

set eyes, I cannot help but feel avowed:

For the uncontainable One chose to erect

his temple within the walls of a single female

egg cell, to trust the particulars of physics as he

flowed through a Fallopian tube and was
rooted in some poor woman’s uterus.
Within months a cord was formed, pumping

filtered life into the substance of his

emergence; sharing blood, sharing vitamins and

nutrients, utterly dependent on his creature for

existence. Even then, cradled in a womb,

his head was down and curled toward his feet,

creating an icon of humility.

And in the fullness of time, the crown

of his head, bloody and slick, breached

into our world of sorrow and death.

He calls us now to imitate, to note the

contractions and the pangs, to present

ourselves at the mouth of the womb, in faith,

that we too might gain new birth.

To a self-effacing god

2011-01-08T15:08:00.001-05:00

Thank you

that you let me reflect bad on you

for the sake of being in relationship with me.

Thank you

that when I show you to be as any other common thing,

you present me as something remarkably holy.

Thank you

that of all the places, you choose to live beneath the skin

that I would often love to lose.

And thank you, Lord,

for choosing the way of weakness and defeat

to show us that things as they are now,

are not how they’re supposed to be.

Window to the Soul

2010-11-23T17:21:00.002-05:00

Sometimes when the sun
sets behind the house, I close
my eyes and stare out
through half-shut blinds, nodding through
successions of dark and light.

Approaching the Gods

2010-11-22T23:17:00.003-05:00

“I say, ‘You are gods,

children of the Most High, all

of you.’”

In a land where all the gods would war,

and snort, and spit, and curse each others’ hordes,

who shed blood for turf and forced labor camps,

who fed on the fattened calves of burnt sacrifices, and

staggered from the wine of pure drink offerings,

who ordered slaves to build, and die, for piles of bricks,

who fixed honor and fame to houses made with hands,

and stuffed treasuries with shekels of silver and gold.

In a land where all the gods would sit enthroned

upon the soiled backs of human beings,

who forced their enemies to lick the dust upon their feet,

who defiled at least a thousand teenage girls, and

robbed the needy with stocks of crooked kings.

In this land where all was pride and pomp,

there lived a modest god who said, Enough!

and let his temple be destroyed.

October

2010-10-08T17:16:00.000-04:00

The forest is drunk
with deep amber lager, poured
from a malted sun.

Robert Pinsky on Poetic Sound

2010-10-08T15:53:00.000-04:00

"... Poetry is a vocal, which is to say a bodily, art. The medium of poetry is a human body: the column of air inside the chest, shaped into signifying sounds in the larynx and the mouth. In this sense, poetry is just as physical or bodily an art as dancing.

Moreover, there is a special intimacy to poetry because, in this area of the art, the medium is not an expert's body, as when one goes to the ballet: in poetry, the medium is the audience's body. When I say to myself a poem by Emily Dickinson or George Herbert, the artist's medium is my breath. The reader's breath and hearing embody the poet's words. This makes the art physical, vocal, and individual.

... Poetry in this vocal and intellectual sense is an ancient art or technology: older than the computer, older than print, older than writing and indeed, though some may find this surprising, much older than prose. I presume that the technology of poetry, using the human body as its medium, evolved for specific uses: to hold things in memory, both within and beyond the individual life span; to achieve intensity and sensuous appeal; to express feelings and ideas rapidly and memorably. To share those feelings and ideas with companions, and also with the dead and with those to come after us." (8-9)

Pinsky, Robert. The Sounds of Poetry: A Brief Guide. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1998.

Not Getting Any Younger

2010-10-01T21:07:00.002-04:00

Twenty four years and one colonoscopy later,

I launch three tubular apparatuses down my throat each

morning and evening on a mission to save my colon.

The dangers involved in such deglutition are manifold:

First, the hulking vessels may not be chewed or broken down, and

rely only upon a swig of water and a push of the tongue for fuel,

thus increasing the chance of pharyngeal obstruction due to

foreign body impaction. Second, if there is a failure to shut

the epiglottis, the team could take a wrong turn down the

trachea and accidentally initiate choking, or even worse,

pulmonary aspiration. Once in the esophagus, however,

our team is propelled downward at a rate of three to five

centimeters a second until they reach the stomach chamber.

Here, the lining of their crafts begin to break down in the

gastric acids, setting off a planned evacuation. Once on foot,

they must navigate in the dark through twenty six feet of coiled

intestine without recourse to our organ positioning satellite.

It is here that dehydration becomes a real threat, as water and

nutrients are absorbed back into the blood stream, leaving

our team the tough task of hacking through increasingly dry and

concentrated matter. If they manage this, they will come upon

the whimpering ulcers of my sigmoid colon. It turns out that

during the first month of exploration, our enema experts were able

to slake the bleeding through a series of rectal suspensions.

So in a form of proleptic chemotherapy, our team will coat the

sores and then store themselves and wait to be egested.

And although our research teams on the ground have yet to find

a cause for the inflammatory outbreak, my hypothesis remains

that it all began because of a weeklong indulgence in the rich

espressos from the charming city of Nantes, France.

Recommendation: Scott Cairns

2010-09-27T12:08:00.000-04:00

Scott Cairns is a professor of English at the University of Missouri, and will be leading a poetry workshop in Vancouver, British Columbia next summer at Regent College from July 25-29. The workshop is titled "Writing with Scripture: A Poetry Workshop," and I hope to figure out a way to get the money and time to attend! Dr. Cairns' work reveals a highly intelligent faith and a mastery of the English language. His poems are able to plumb the deep questions of life from new, and often simple, angles that provide refreshment for the reader. I recommend him to you as someone who does not write good poetry because it is "Christian" or "spiritual," but because it is actually good writing and he has obviously taken the time to hone his craft. My favorite poem of his can be found here. His poem titled "Idiot Psalms" is also a must read. Enjoy!

At the Zoo

2010-09-24T14:01:00.001-04:00

I really shouldn’t lie, yes,

I’m one of those guys

who likes the stench that pervades the space

around the elephant display.

It makes me feel earthy, fresh,

like my lungs are being fertilized with

strange new minerals that

provide a ground-breaking breath.

It’s funny how a little bit of wafting

can do that.

And I could stand there at the railing

and watch them for ages:

Smelly, vast, adorned

in some ivory fashion.

Their cracked-gray skin like huge slabs

of overcooked steak, with lazy

trunks that are more like blown-

up bratwursts when I’m

hungry.

But they’re so bizarre, I can’t quite

place them on this planet.

I can only think of old men.

Maybe it’s the straggling hairs on their

balding heads, or the way

they sulk around the pen like

alien grandpas snooping around

for their misplaced spectacles.

Then they get tired and start puffing

clouds of dust upon their backs like

front porch pipe-smokers. See,

there’s something about old men

and elephants.

And that’s not all. I look

down at the info board, only to read,

that they greet each other with expired

air, urine, and heaps of feces.

I guess this chemical secretion signals

a brilliant, aromatic affection.

And this is no slam on old people,

because if someone was so thrilled to see me

that they dared to defecate themselves,

well,

then they’d be my best friend.

Videos!

2010-09-21T12:48:00.000-04:00

I will be posting videos of myself reading each of my poems from now on, because I believe it is so important for poetry to be heard audibly in order for it to have its full effect. I know the video quality is not the best, so bear with me until I figure out something better. It's the sound quality that matters anyways! Also, check back every once in a while, as I will be making more videos for poems that are already posted on the blog. Have a great day!

Youth

2010-09-20T14:50:00.000-04:00

Enchanted children turn

over playful wheels on Morality Drive.

The plastic on pebbles takes me

back to Naperville, 1989.

I was five then, and of life knew

only love and play.

The sidewalk caterpillars knew

no such thing, as my bike tires

painted the concrete with

a smooth, lemon green,
and as dinnertime came I

would always go home

with holey socks and

blackened feet.

Public Faces

2010-09-10T14:51:00.000-04:00

Three men in black suits talk to a woman at a table

by the window.

They wear white, plastic collars that form a square

under their chins.

Another man dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt stares
at his computer.

I’ve seen his blonde, parted hair up front at a church I

don’t go to.

I type, alone, and the broken table swivels from the weight
of my elbows.
I'd like to think that what I'm doing is important and
pertains to faith.

We all sit in different corners of the room, consumed in

different things.

I don’t feel like I could talk to any of them, not because I

wouldn’t want that,

But because we’re strangers to another, and our body is

so broken.

Projections

2010-09-08T11:36:00.000-04:00

all along the water’s edge,

the clear-bodied carcasses of

jelly fish lie strewn out across the

sand like chunks of ocean vomit.

some still hold a veiny red hue, but

all have lost their sting to death.

hundreds of shells are also scattered

along the beach’s upper lip, their colors

both dazzling and dull;

they are the coins from the bodies

of ancient seafarers that never found the

ferryman’s flashing eyes.

I shudder.

the pallid waves cast a menacing grin at

the land, at me, unsheathing white teeth,

tauntingly,

as they lurch forward like a salivating beast,

spitting foam and gnawing at my feet.

From a Beach Chair

2010-09-07T12:57:00.000-04:00

skittish sandpipers scurry

up and

down the shoreline,

possessed,

stitching up the sand with the frenzied

sewing of their needle-shaped beaks,

stabbing for lunch.

their typewriter legs briskly patter

the paper-flat beach in a

zigzag pattern,

unprofessional at best.

feet away,

paranoid ghost crabs poke

periscopic eyes out of darkened

holes, tossing teaspoon amounts of sand

with their fiddle-like claws, seeming

to wink as they clean themselves off.

some creep and crawl, stretching a five-foot radii life one

or two feet more,

but dart back, and vanish,

as a rogue seagull lands in view,

detecting a gross black beetle

on its back, kicking against the wind

with little insect legs.

seconds later, the bird casually juggles

the dying bug, teasing out life,

and with a flip of the head,

gulps it down

whole.

The Truth about Tennyson (and Love)

2010-08-30T10:38:00.000-04:00

"'Tis better to have loved and lost, / Than never to have loved at all---"

How many times have you heard these lines spoken from the lips of some broken-hearted high schooler who just broke up with their boyfriend or girlfriend? How many of you have even quoted it, and in what situation? I can remember about ten years ago when I would sit up late at night on AOL Instant Messenger as a teenager reading other peoples' away messages (Yes, I stalked then). It was not unusual for these lines to show up, and I would immediately recognize the latest lamenting victim of a break-up. These lines, after all, are very famous.

So who wrote them and why? Well, let me clue you into a little secret. Actually, a number of secrets. First, the lines were penned by none other than Alfred "Lord" Tennyson, the British poet who lived from 1809-1892. In 1850 he succeeded William Wordsworth as Poet Laureate, and then published Maud (1855), Idylls of the King (1859), and Enoch Arden (1864), which all helped to raise his popularity to such a level that many of his contemporaries would consider this period of English history the 'age of Tennyson.' He offers us the finest sample of Victorian poetry ever produced.

His most famous work, however, in which our lines in discussion appear, is aptly titled In Memoriam A.H.H. So who is A.H.H., and why did Tennyson write this poem in his or her name? It turns out that A.H.H. are the initials of Tennyson's best friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, whom he met in 1829 and who later fell in love with Tennyson's sister. Hallam acted as Tennyson's literary agent for a few years before dying unexpectedly while on a trip to Austria with his father in 1833. This was crushing news for both Tennyson and his sister, and it was at this time that Tennyson began composing short lyrics on grief, loss, and other thoughts that Hallam's death inspired, which were eventually compiled into the longer piece of work that we know today: In Memoriam A.H.H.

We actually meet the lines quoted above in two separate places, one of which appears in LXXXV:

"This truth came borne with bier and pall,

I felt it, when I sorrow'd most,

'Tis better to have loved and lost,

Than never to have loved at all---

O true in word, and tried in deed,

Demanding, so to bring relief

To this which is our common grief,

What kind of life is that I lead;

And whether trust in things above

Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd;

And whether love for him have drain'd

My capabilities of love;

Your words have virtue such as draws

A faithful answer from the breast,

Thro' light reproaches, half exprest

And loyal unto kindly laws.

My blood an even tenor kept,

Till on mine ear this message falls,

That in Vienna's fatal walls

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept."

The other sample in which the lines show up are found in XXVII:

"I envy not in any moods

The captive void of noble rage,

The linnet born within the cage,

That never knew the summer woods:

I envy not the beast that takes

His license in the field of time,

Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,

To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest,

The heart that never plighted troth

But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;

Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all."

Clearly, then, the love which Tennyson speaks of is not primarily of the romantic variety. Nor is his sense of loss the bubble bursting in a romantic relationship with a significant other. He describes his love for his best friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, and his tremendous grief at his death. Any reader of the poem will notice the deep substance behind Tennyson's description of love. Love is a passionate friendship that permanently changes the core being of each person, and when one of them dies, the other is worse off. It is a sharing in life together, and grief is a sharing in a beloved's death as if a part of yourself were now dying too. Tennyson's love is committed to action, comes into being in action, and 'troths' through the experiences and plights of life. It is not idle or lazy, and it does not stagnate in the 'weeds of sloth,' nor is it happy to sit content with one's own self and never really give everything to others. Whatever else Tennyson meant, love is definitely not a series of emotional ecstasies, and it is not limited to certain types of relationships. I sometimes wonder how many Americans would still quote these lines if they really knew the high, demanding standards of Tennyson's love. Love should, after all, 'drain' us.

Closets

2010-08-08T17:18:00.000-04:00

beyond the dual sliding wooden doors

droops dirty, wrinkled dress shirts on

metal fishhook lines, clumsily pressed

in a tame file of masculinity, like
hollow drones in a washed up army.

legless, headless, staring straight into

each other’s backs, scrapping for pride

with tautly pointed shoulders.

a person used to be in each one,

used to fill the partially stained cuffs

and button up the frontal wounds

with hurried, though nimble, hands.

the person need not be dead,

but has moved on,

or is now poor,

and has no need for such illusory glory.

higher up, a simple grated shelf supports

stack-less piles of others left for dead.

discarded jeans, a flame-colored swimsuit,

and a pair of gym shorts dangling drawstrings

like limbs over the little edge.

their sad shape calls back a time

when they were alive, full, careening

in fresh wind, sodden with salt liquor,

caressing loved ones in holy gentleness.

now, all are hopelessly void.

they couldn’t accommodate the humps

of budding love handles, or mend the many

splits that scarred their pristine state.

these things dress my mind, as I watch

bones twitch beneath my skin as I type.

is there a person filling out this flesh, or

is it just stuff hung in some darkened

closet space, given up on and lost?

The Writer's Almanac and John Berryman

2010-08-07T09:05:00.000-04:00

To view and listen to a wonderful poem by John Berryman (1914-1972), visit The Writer's Almanac. It is a free public radio broadcast and each day writer Garrison Keillor gives fun and interesting facts about what has happened on that day in literary history. He also selects a poem each day and reads it aloud, and I've found that more often than not I love his choices. I would suggest subscribing to the broadcast so that you can bring creative writing into your day --- it's only a few minutes long and they email it to you!

I would also love to hear everyone's thoughts on Berryman's poem. He is so beautifully honest.

John Berryman with a killer beard. He is best known for his work, Dream Songs.

Faith

2010-07-24T13:09:00.000-04:00

sweats in the birth-throes

of artificial rooms. backs arch

in pushing frenzies, and thighs

tie knots in nuanced vicinities.

moans

upon moans

pile up in ever-mounting pulses of
pain.

then comes the numbness.

temporary.

feeling lurks back, and with it,

the pain.

but with this falls

a fresh, labored resolve.

strength is not merely physical
in this primal place.

what plays out is

the death-struggle which

begets the truest faith.

1:34 AM

2010-07-19T16:23:00.000-04:00

It’s the middle of July, and I sit up

on this off-white couch always thinking

in the dark.

I’m all alone and this room feels small.
The walls feel thick.

I can’t help but feel like I’m six again, waiting

up for the man on another Christmas eve,

frightened by the thrill of belief.

So why’d you have to leave?

It must have been my in-the-dark complaining,

or the darkness up in my head.

Heck, it always is.

But, now that I think about it,

the one thing I’ve noticed is your seeming absence.

An absence so felt

it cripples innocent belief.

And this noticed absence is the only presence

I get from you these days.

It’s like those half-eaten cookies with a half-drowned glass

of milk found on Christmas morning.

When I was a kid I always thought it was Santa.

Who wouldn’t?
He’s here, he’s gone.

He’s here again and then

he’s gone again.

Each year ascending to glory after a meal

of sugar-laced crumbs and

a cup of lukewarm, candy-cane white.

I guess my mind was set on serving him

and believing in his jolly beneficence.

He could get me anything.

Now, I feel like I’m that stale cookie,

baked in heat and nibbled on by some
figmented fairy of my own imagination.

I hope to God I’m not being played

by God.

The chewed away chunks of me better be
digesting in the stomach

of some real
reality.

I pray it tastes really good.

Rest

2010-07-18T21:03:00.000-04:00

A lone ash tree sways

low in the wind, whispering,

a sigh is enough.

Mary Oliver on "Informational Language"

2010-07-15T17:44:00.000-04:00

"There is a kind of language that is clearly unsuitable when one is writing a poem. I call it informational language. It is the language one would use if one were writing a paragraph on how to operate a can opener. It is a language that means to be crisp and accurate. Its words are exact. They do not ever desire to throw two shadows. The language is cold. It does not reach for any territory beyond the functional." (89)

Oliver, Mary. A Poetry Handbook. Orlando: Harcourt Books, 1994.

Hicksville, Ohio

2010-07-06T19:03:00.000-04:00

Shadows

2010-07-01T23:10:00.001-04:00

The fog will not clear
that cragged, infamous hill,
all forsaken now.

Drinking Again

2010-06-23T19:02:00.000-04:00

Have you ever wished
that instead of warming you,
the sun would fall dead?

Sludge

2010-06-21T10:55:00.001-04:00

Melancholy drift
sighs like dying glacial ice,
reflecting the sun.

Robert Lowell & Nashville

2010-06-14T10:22:00.000-04:00

This photo was taken at Vanderbilt University in Nasvhille, TN when my family gathered there for my sister's graduation. I was reminded of what Robert Lowell describes beautifully in his poem "Man and Wife": "At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street, / blossoms on our magnolia ignite / the morning with their murderous five day's white."

To see the text of the whole poem, go here. It is truly one of my favorites.

Hebrew Class

2010-06-02T18:10:00.000-04:00

It took a month to read

שָׁלוֹם

It always seemed to be

noitcerid tnereffid a ni gnivom

Even off the

page.

At length I grasped

שָׁלוֹם

And aligned it in a box:

(šā∙lôm) n.m. wholeness,

peace, welfare,

completeness…

Yet I still longed for something real.

Now I try (and often fail) to do

שָׁלוֹם

In any and every way,

Even if this means living

tfel ot thgir

In a world of left to right.

Verbal Nonsense

2010-05-25T16:34:00.000-04:00

It seems wise to situate myself

within all this verbiage.

If I settle with me, I won’t be living…

Right?

This sentence has more order than

syntax-less life with me in it.

Strange.

Sometimes I wish I was a participle

rather than a boring noun.

Praying, crying, falling, smiling,

Doing…

These have action, and besides,

I can’t me-ing anything.

I guess I should stick to writing,

or pretending.

Anyways, life is found in the –ing

and not the me.

Damn, I love clichéing.

A Meal

2010-05-16T14:53:00.001-04:00

These mixing reds,

This transfusion divine,

Man (God) made flush (flesh) in sweet sublime!

The Least of These

2010-03-30T17:41:00.000-04:00

I met a man down on Busch and Granville,

Squinting in dust, swept up by tornado-buses

And toxins, musty and unmerciful.

He stood still, statuesque,

In petrified humiliation, like a

Grecian colossus straddling a concrete sea,

Stone-blushed by the passersby underneath.

Yet he was hard; unfazed and unflecked

By the thousand mufflers which rattled past in jest,

The unaware fist-shakers and middle fingers

Up.

Those snakes!—those

Foil-like wrappings of a routine life!

Draping him invisible, nameless, like one

Chucked to the oven and away from sight:

Leftovers.

Those cannibal chefs prefer their meat smoked.

Is that why they wish to pass so swiftly;

To treat their finely-roasted fancy?

Plumped heads straight without side glances…

Awkwardness.

They consider color change above:

Mechanical.

Forget the living below… No, higher…

Transcendent,

With Parkinson-hands, peppered jaws,

And a wood-splintered face.

He’s not the one who needs the

Bottle of vodka to drown his pain.

He’s a master poet signing doom –

Please help need money and food –

This, the prophet-man’s rhetorical rack,

Demanding acts, (or an ax?),

With which to shut him up.

His existence is guillotine-space

For their immovable heads,

While he, the unmoved mover,

Flinches not:

For he has become like god.

A Graveyard Stroll

2010-03-24T13:15:00.000-04:00

They say God wrote on stone.

I couldn’t agree more—

Turner, Watkins,

McDonald, Black—

Etches of meaning upon

This draconian rock.

"Enoch"

2010-03-22T10:35:00.000-04:00

I looked to find a man who walked with God,
Like the translated patriarch of old; -
Though gladdened millions on his footstool trod,
Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
I heard the wind in low complaint go by
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yet none like David turned a willing ear;
God walked alone unhonored through the earth;
For him no heart-built temple open stood,
The soul forgetful of her nobler birth
Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinished and in ruins still
The only temple he delights to fill.

- Jones Very (1813-1880)

"He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven"

2010-03-02T11:26:00.000-05:00

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

- William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

2010-02-22T13:37:00.000-05:00

Before we the people forget, full of identity, and strive into after…

We the people forget, full of identity, and strive into after…

We the people forget full of identity and strive after…

We people forget full of identity and strive after…

We people forget of identity and strive after…

We people forget of identity and strive…

People forget of identity and strive…

People forget of and strive…
People forget and strive...

Forget and strive…

And strive…

Strive…
...

Postmodernism and Poetry

2010-02-10T11:49:00.000-05:00

The following excerpts are taken from "Postmodern American Poetry: A Norton Anthology," and help to clarify how those operating out of postmodern assumptions come to view literature and other texts. The postmodern approach, as we will see, focuses more on the form in which something is written than with the actual symbolic meaning of words and sentences. It is more concerned with the process of writing than with the final written product. Although these excerpts are written with the context of poetry in mind, these basic postmodern themes and emphases are being applied to all fields of study (even Biblical Criticism).

"Experimentalists in the postwar period have valued writing-as-process over writing-as-product. They have elevated the pluralistic, which Charles Olson called 'the real biz of reality,' over the singular, which Olson called 'the whole ugly birth of the 'either-or.' Postmodernism decenters authority and embraces pluralism. It encourages a 'panoptic' or many-sided point of view. Postmodernism prefers 'empty words' to the 'transcendental signified,' the actual to the metaphysical... What a text means has more to do with how it was written than with what it expresses... Thus the material of art is to be judged simply as material, not for its transcendent meaning or symbolism. In general, postmodern poetry opposes the centrist values of unity, significance, linearity, expressiveness, and a heightened, even heroic, portrayal of the bourgeois self and its concerns."

Another major theme of postmodern poetry is indeterminacy. "Indeterminacy means the conditionality of truth, as well as the compositional tendency away from finality and closure; the text is in a state of unrest or undecidability."

This indeterminacy calls upon the reader of a text into the process of determining meaning, and invites them into the world of a text where words are actualized: "The text calls upon the reader to be actively involved in the process of constituting its meaning... The text formally involves the process of response/interpretation and in so doing makes the reader aware of herself or himself as producer as well as consumer of meaning. A poem is not 'about' something, a paraphrasable narrative, symbolic nexus, or theme; rather, it is the actuality of words."

All of these themes and approaches to a text encompass postmodernism's major goal: "... an ongoing process of resistance to mainstream ideology." They resist "cultural genocide, the political and economic fallout from imperialism, and the homogenizing forces of modern technology." They resist the metanarratives, or the big stories, told about the world and human experience. They emphasize the local, not the global.

What is perhaps most interesting about postmodern poetry, and one could conclude the same about postmodernism in general, is that their resistance and rebellion against mainstream ideologies has now become the norm. Postmodernism is now the ruling ideology: "The distinction between bohemia and academia was clear in 1960. Today that difference is harder to establish, as many avant-gardists [postmodern poets] make their living by university teaching. The radicalism that inspired many poets of the 1960s has found expression in critical approaches such as feminism, post-structuralism, and multiculturalism that are increasingly central to the study of liberal arts." Futhermore, the ideology that once sought to deconstruct all others is now in the position of influence, subtly removing all obstacles which challenge its dominance. Has postmodernism become that thing which it sought to destroy?

Elegy for Haiti

2010-02-01T23:54:00.000-05:00

I finally finished writing a poem that I have been working on these past few weeks as I've thought about the recent tragic events in Haiti. There are really no words that can describe what has happened there and the horror that some have experienced, and writing about it seemed almost presumptuous, especially from someone like me who sits at a distance from it all in comfort and ease. It is my only hope and prayer that this poem would be acceptable to the people of Haiti as my wholly insignificant tribute to them, and nothing more.

Elegy for Haiti

They are all no more: and we hear you weep,
Howling over your children in the streets.
Yet who can comfort you, explain this mess?
They lie in makeshift tombs, your children are
Dead.
The ground rolled as the deep beneath their feet,
And now you sink in disconsolate grief,
In stares, empty faces, and hollow cheeks,
You’re cursed by death to breathe another week.
Will you hate us then, with our cushioned lives?
Who live in plenty and who sleep at night?
For chaos has raped your young, needy world,
As creation descends into a swirl
Of blackened voids and diabolical
Orgies consummating torments of old.
Before a Word spoke to restrain this crime,
Now over silence reigns horrific cries.
For they have all gone into a world of
Dust,
Your precious ones, the children you love most.
Ripped from your womb and sown into rubble:
A belly of clay where they first huddled.
She quakes with pangs as if giving them back,
But straining, sweating, she yields only cracks.
How long, by God, must we wait for their birth?
For three days more will leave her warped, unnerved,
In some state of woe that stings beyond time,
Where all hope has gone to the muck and grime.
So bring them back in the richness of youth,
Her daughters and sons, so that she may soothe
Those who have faced death and oblivion.
And we ourselves must groan for redemption,
Not ours, but yours, their mother incarnate,
Who still lives, and dies, in the fleshly state,
With each new tear and nightmare memory.
Beloved, cry, and please just simply be,
For we alone have the leisure to pray,
And the poise to plead with an untried faith.
Yet will this comfort, you so long ignored?
They are still dead and the land is still sore.

George Herbert's "The Pulley"

2010-01-24T09:58:00.000-05:00

When God at first made man,
Having a glasse of blessings standing by ;
Let us (said he) poure on him all we can :
Let the worlds riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way ;
Then beautie flow’d, then wisdome, honour, pleasure :
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottome lay.

For if I should (said he)
Bestow this jewell also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts in stead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature :
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlesnesse :
Let him be rich and wearie, that at least,
If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse
May tosse him to my breast.

John Donne's Holy Sonnet I

2010-01-11T09:31:00.000-05:00

I just finished reading an excellent biography of John Donne, the early 17th century poet and priest, by John Stubbs. Easily my favorite historical figure and poet, here is a sampling of his work to tie you over until I can produce something of quality:

Holy Sonnet I

Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste;
I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday.
I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
Despair behind, and death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
Only thou art above, and when towards thee
By thy leave I can look, I rise again;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me
That not one hour myself I can sustain.
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.

Charles Wesley's Hymns, Part III

2009-12-17T17:29:00.000-05:00

The final installment of my three poems in honor of Charles Wesley's Hymns on the Lord's Supper (1745):

Lord, to Thy table we come
As beggars seeking fortune;
Make us feel Thy precious Son
And with sin and strife be done!
Glimpse the mystery Divine:
Thy body’s blood, parceled out,
And blessed unity we find
In death, sacrifice, and doubt.

The walk to Thy wooden board
Is slow, heavy, painfully long,
But Thou impart strength to soar
Upward, held by prayer and song.
Come now to Golgotha’s skull!
Watch the bones shake and quiver,
See the sinews, the tissues pull
Muscles, veins, life together!

Thy glorious act indeed:
This dead body is alive!
Please plant Thy quickened seed
With a chalice in our side;
Let us live on death alone
And on the life found therein,
Where Thy body’s strength is shown,
Even at the table’s glint!

Charles Wesley, Part II

2009-12-12T11:01:00.000-05:00

Here is another poem I wrote, the form and rhyme scheme of which was modeled off of Charles Wesley's Hymn #43 found in Hymns on the Lord's Supper (1745). Hopefully you can see the strong Eucharistic theme woven into these poems, as it was vital to Wesley's creative writing:


Thy cup has turned to joy,
The bitter drink destroyed!
No more to taste wrath’s cruel dregs,
Or grow parched on this world’s dust;
Grace we feast upon instead:
The Conqueror and the Just!

            
Please fill us with Thy blood,
Drown us in love’s sweet flood!
Grant Thy Spirit wet our tongues
With streams of majestic life;
Breathe joy into our depressed lungs,
And show Thyself to our sight!

            
Break our bodies likewise,
For the world’s despised, and
Pour out our warmth on cold souls,
On vagabonds and on whores;
Let them savor holiness,
And leave them full, yet wanting more.

Imitation of Charles Wesley

2009-12-08T17:16:00.000-05:00

For one of my classes at Ashland I am writing poems modeled on the form and content of some of Charles Wesley's hymns found in Hymns on the Lord's Supper first published in 1745. Here is one of them, modeled on Hymn #29:

Grant us to spy Thy naked back,
Thy broken flesh divine;
Of love’s potion, never to lack,
Sip we must of heaven’s wine!

Exposed to us without all shame,
We pant, stirring, in delight;
Our souls Thy bloody kiss doth claim,
We shudder at Thy bite!

Thou meant to pass us by that day,
Instead, Thou made alive
In us, Thyself, Thy breath, and lay
On alter’s bed of pine.

Now, Glory! The bride doth sing,
Enraptured by her King!
Death stands dead with his dreadful sting,
To Thy body my flesh doth cling!

A Plea to My Father

2009-11-24T16:08:00.000-05:00

Blow, blow, upon these ebbing coals,
With winds divine into the cold
Of my huffing flue, sick on soot,
Choked, clogged, by raging fire’s doom.
For vap'rous death usurped the flame;
The tyrant entropy who claims
A stake in the decay of man,
Thinning my heart’s beatific land.
Please through these soiled ashes sift,
Let passion rise and vent this crypt!
Else my soul collapse in itself
And suck in all things flesh and hell.
Rule me gently, O sovereign Lord,
And fight harshly this soul's discord.

2009-11-19T11:48:00.001-05:00

Quick Note: I just decided that from now on all of the posts on this blog will be related to poetry and photography. I feel as though these are my favorite mediums in which to communicate to you, my audience, and I hope to further hone my skills as an amateur poet. I also realized that I have really nothing unique or new to say in regards to the social, economic, political, or entertainment life in America. So many people are giving their opinions these days and I do not wish to add another voice to the already raging sea. Regardless, I hope that my posts will continue to challenge your reading and thinking. Enjoy!

Musings

2009-10-24T13:44:00.000-04:00

Are you my own idea?
An image projected from my mind?
For what reason would I invent
Such a being so kind and dreadful?
You who plague me with your company,
Yet bring death by your departure.
For I die when you are near,
And I die when you are far.
I tremble in your presence,
And despair in your absence.
When you come I run and hide,
For I am as black as death,
And you are life.
When you go I wrench and cry,
For you are light and pure,
And you are life.
Leave me now,
But not right now.
Stay, stay! My Lord and my God,
For I would rather die in your arms
Then die in some lost space alone.
I would rather hate myself in your sight,
Then hate you by myself.
You bring me to nothing.
You are my everything.
Please destroy me
By joining me to you,
Lest I be destroyed
By my separation from you.
You are the great I AM.
I pray that one day I can say
I AM
With you.

Diary of an Old Soul

2009-10-20T11:18:00.001-04:00

Because I'm currently sapped of poetic inspiration, here's a little one from George MacDonald (1824-1905), a Scottish novelist, poet, and Christian writer:

My prayer-bird was cold - would not away,
Although I set it on the edge of the nest.
Then I bethought me of the story old -
Love-fact or loving fable, thou know'st best -
How, when the children had made sparrows of clay,
Thou mad'st them birds, with wings to flutter and fold:
Take, Lord, my prayer in thy hand, and make it pray.

Winter

2009-10-08T16:50:00.000-04:00

The front slides over with an eerie ease,
Like a granite cover of deathly blackness
That seals the dead, the gods appeased.
Gray strangles color in cruel nature’s twist,
The leaves red and purple from a violent Fall.
All life chokes in this concrete tomb,
All bitterly cold from lives void and dull:
Here lies hearts once beating and frozen too soon.
From where then comes our hope of Spring?
Death may come this time for good
And leave us stone-like upon this chaotic sea,
As artifacts of dust cosmically misunderstood.
Or could this be God’s hand opening our eyes
To the beauty of death under redemptive guise?

Tanzania

2009-09-15T15:57:00.000-04:00

Dear Bill

2009-09-07T13:37:00.000-04:00

Be still upon your Maker’s breast
With sparring tears of crystal clear;
Fall gently in His warm caress

Crushed hearts demand this noble rest
On such a being so kind and near;
Be still upon your Maker’s breast

When fools can look and act the best
And a scoffing world lends a sneer,
Fall gently in His warm caress

When ghastly shadows feed your mess
With refuse lies, like babies reared,
Be still upon your Maker's breast

Embrace that burning in your chest
Resigned, resolved, confessing fear,
Fall gently in His warm caress!

My mind reels on words like these, lest
I lose them in the coming years:
Be still upon your Maker’s breast,
Fall gently in His warm caress

Gravity

2009-08-24T18:44:00.001-04:00

Between two worlds dressed in blurry gray,
Statues trek through ash stricken dunes,
Among purgatorial ruts of hope and shame.
For beyond the threshold our oneness looms,
Where dreams speak truth without need of night
And hearts are ablaze as dancing fires.
Yet we wake, still bound, to ills and strife,
Staggered by gravity's affect on desire.
Each step, precarious, unknown to itself,
Unsure of which realm to step into next.
So paralyzed, we stand, without any help—
Alone between two lines of black and white.
We always hope for what we cannot see,
Because hope itself displaces us from reality.

Rainstorm

2009-08-20T17:20:00.001-04:00

Rain peppers my window
Like fuzz on an old antenna TV.
Water sizzles as it swiftly patters the
Ground, like a cracked egg dropped
On my electric frying pan.
Playful drops tickle the Earth's coarse back,
Nudging it to wake, turn over,
And drink down life...

I wish I was so receptive.

The Silk Road

2009-06-24T22:34:00.000-04:00

There our dreams fluttered desperately,
Striving against elastic tides of hope and fear,
Prostrated on nature's web of doom.
No gods, no masters, beastly brain soaring free,
Aspiring among alters of devices held dear,
Our sly sibyl crying 'Peace' too soon.

For while we loose the chains of the divine,
A master's yoke remains of planetary death,
Our god we venerate like an Atlas child.
Knowingly caught in nature's intent to malign,
As fools unaware of proximate powers that vex,
We trust the facade of our executioner's smile.

So stuck, we strain to subdue our captor,
Our callous killer who stalks, not right nor wrong,
Ready to bite, at any moment, and finish it all.

2009-06-19T12:54:00.000-04:00

Buried beneath this cosmic wasteland
My soul lay trapped in earth’s blackest core:
Thy power struck its defiant sands;
I choked; the tunnel engulfed with war;
Thou fought death: my lungs sucked in freedom:
I crawled up, ran, and embraced Thy Kingdom

Things Above

2009-06-06T15:53:00.000-04:00

Though I once was desperate,
caught in the terror stricken fangs of
darkness,
cold and naked, spewing out life.
Now I am clothed in You,
as when exposed to the
early morning sun, whose
warmth
hits my skin and preserves vibrancy.
The destroyed faces renewel
in the light of Your countenance,
beaming down in whispering smiles
of affection and delight.
You shine forth splendid rays of
hope
from Your holy hill, where Your
faithful leap and dance in
Your paternal presence.
And though I see You not,
I know Your works:
dazzling delicacies unfolding
in the palm of Your hand,
rivers that cut like childhood's
play, and swing into the ocean
at the end of the day.
Nature sings a different tune,
surging forth in melodious praise,
always new and never old.
In this stillness I sit content,
not wanting to lose the song
in the cacophony of sounds from an
empiricist world.
Yes, I plainly hear, but what I
hear is deeper than the caverns
in my head. I hear
a host elsewhere proclaiming
glory to the One who
established it all for us.

My Prayer

2009-05-30T10:20:00.000-04:00

May Your words drop like rain on this barren desert body
Let the dew of Your lips seep into my heart of dust
Bow me down gently as graceful waves hit my knees
May Your voice calm the chaos sea tossing up my lusts
I am starving for the streams of Your delight
For my brain, parched and shrinking, in the futility of itself,
Strives to bathe in Truth, not blood, upon its lofty heights
Flesh feigns as the donor of life by winking as help,
But You, O Lord, are supreme in Your mercies
You refresh and restore as the gardener of my soul;
Instruct my mouth to hold Your praise reverently,
As I love You, who remains, more precious than gold
Who desires a love so noble as this? That He who gives
All breath to life might die so that all may truly live.

A "Helpful" Gesture

2009-04-23T17:54:00.000-04:00

I gave an awkward hand to a lady I did not know.
Stared past the tears, grief, and pain on her face;
Trudged over to a box, uncomfortably, out of place.

The object within spoke nothing to me.
No memories, no dreams, no cares in the world,
No feelings, no hope; just a bulky, clumsy cold.

I felt a numbing normalcy toward the thing of emptiness,
And thought of myself as the chief of hypocrisy,
Throwing just a casual glance at the item unsleeping.

I slipped out of the room, embarrassingly relieved.
My throat’s lump now gone, the sojourn complete,
The cutting reality of nothingness mournfully depleting.

Then as lightning came the rude shock of guilt.
My heart crashed down in the face of its ugliness,
In the absence of love as though it had never been kissed.

Too often real people become corpses to me,
Unnoticed and discarded like a neglected lover.
His name was Matthew and he died in November.

Camping

2009-03-04T18:35:00.000-05:00

We hike up at night
Our sweaty, filthy shirts:
The intoxicating wild
Breeds a primal bite.

We find shrouded treasures
Undressed in caves:
The jewel of another
Brings bestial pleasure.

We get busy at dark
Drunk on toxic streams:
Moistening our lips
To strike our perfect match.

We fail to see light
Our warm, safe fire:
Where we roast our hearts
And purge our ugly fright.

The Day

2009-02-17T10:06:00.000-05:00

Every day I see your cry:
Shadows slip off their concrete covers,
Roll around Earth before overwhelmed in
Warmth. And Cold, hid in cracks,
Has her guilt exposed; flirting
with Dark 'til that first grain of
Light. By noon, blinding Might stands
Resolute; Its exalted throne a sceptor of
Wood. Skies roar and mountains quake,
Rivers hiss with diabolic glee. The
Sun lays entombed amoung the clouds,
Suffocating in their violent vapors.
Evening sweeps up the remnant dust of
Life, and Silence tip-toes in on the
Land, wondering about the Sounds of that
Day. The Sun slides into the back pocket of
Earth, and Darkness must scramble, for
Their time is up: The Sun will rise to secure our
Peace.

Untitled

2008-07-17T18:28:00.000-04:00

The praise of these lips, I shudder to think,
Hedge the infinite into itemized inventions.
Just a mortal tongue with a knack for deception,
It may simplify, torture, and abort the unique.
But by grace those sounds take a staggering leap,
Beating wildly into a heart undone,
Whose love protects as a father would a son.
Stare long, dear brother, and hold what you see!
For our cries are lifted up on every treetop,
Ringing forth, desperately, as a plea for help…
And as our arms spread forth like an angel's wings,
We exhale as one with eternity unlocked.
Upon this cross extends the ego of our self,
But behold, ashes rise, and as victors they sing!

Skepticus Platypus

2008-07-11T10:19:00.000-04:00

To say, ‘All is vanity,’
Is but a joke in itself.
For thus spoke Meaning
Out of a chaos of not.

“Do you have the Son?”
“Well, indeed I do.”
“Then where is your hope?”
“Fleeting for now...
But coming back soon.”

“Oh shame on you,
You poor child’s mind
Mind you, believer,
Belief is no lie!”

“Well excuse me, sir,
For that smudge on your shoe.
Those I usually step on
Use the world as their stool.”

The Fish

2008-04-22T22:54:00.000-04:00

Oftentimes I feel
As though I’m crushed between two worlds:
A certain weight of decadence from below
Or a type of glory from far above

It is as though I’ve touched something still
Yet my poor mind hurries happily along
Leaving my soul anchored in eternal deep,
Who, once more, longs to breach the surface,
Grasp a breath,
And sing my being back into peace.

Yes, I vaguely remember hearing this song before,
When naked, like Adam, I rushed through the breeze,
Watched the ripples of a stream carry on eternally,
And saw, as though ordained,
A miracle scrape the heavens just for me.

And though now I sit and watch these worlds collide,
Hope gently whispers of things different for me,
When I’m wrapped in splendor like the lilies of the field,
And raised up to my home among the everlasting hills.

The Silence

2008-02-22T09:45:00.000-05:00


I saw before me in the ally of night, 
  Two shadows casting even deadlier light. 
One ripping and clawing like a raging wolf,
  The other writhing and sniffling like a rat. 
Who, I wondered
  Was up to the fight, and
    Who, I thought
      Could end this fright?
Now one clenched the other in its pins of death,
  Two evils now witnessed in just one short breath.
The wretch now exhausting its outnumbered strength,
  As countless fangs of boasting ground it to grain.
Who, I questioned
  Might step in instead, and
    Who, I thought
      Was the brave who led?
What I saw next seemed bereft of sympathy,
  When one figure crushed the other’s skull with glee.
Aghast, the two now a little more than one,
  Set the beads of its eyes on me all alone.
      Who, I mused
    Was the man brought down, and
  Who, I supposed
Would save me now?
“He’s only one” I fumbled up in my mind,
  But there must be others who add to his kind. So
I dashed like the sunset with night on my heels
  And I fell, cockeyed, upon the land of silence.

The Curse

2008-01-17T15:12:00.000-05:00

Before my face is blood.
Pale, sick, diseased-colored blood.
Plastered as I shiver from its zeal
This burning is the rape of my heart.
Filth clogging up my veins;
Sex climaxing in my lungs;
I can’t breathe.
Choking like a fish on soil
Eyes dry and mouth unlocked
The stench of dead corpses willow out.
Rapt in this poisonous mess
As my burden slits my throat
And torrents of remorse drown my hands.

Before my face is blood.
Silent, empty, thin-dripping blood.
Watered down from lack of life,
It’s found a vessel ripe for harvest.
Seeping into endless cracks,
It eulogizes flesh and pierces my soul.
It slashes my virtue
And hacks away at my pride;
A trigger pulled, meant for my mind.
Guilt and disgrace is shot through my brain
More blood splatters, this time on others
The one I love here; the One I love there
I stare and now the blood’s on their hands.

The Bride

2008-01-17T11:55:00.000-05:00

There it lay, a figure panting in its struggle
A crimson tint stuck to its hide
Despicably flailing, pathetically kicking about
Too breathless to utter even silence
The red brightened in darkness
Flowing ceaselessly out of naked pores
The whore, the dog, abused by itself
Splashes and drops tickle the world
Shavings of flesh fall to its side…
The dupe of its own hands
A slow murder indeed; mutilated by the self
Its lone universe a pool of shame
Engulfing, drowning this poor brute’s name
A cold hand pressing it against the ground
Crushing the life out of a body in need
Invisible, yes, but ferociously real
A lion with teeth dripping of prey
A dishonorable mane, stained with the kill
“Away!” the hapless creature cries
Tears mixed with blood, smashed with grief
Reaching, spinning towards the light
“Come, my aid! It must be somewhere-
Amity to wrap my soul in white!”
Then a word tumbled from the wind,
Piercing gently into all.
A chorus of hopes speaks to the alone,
To the mug that resembles one I know.
I see my visage twisted, inflamed with desire.
I turn my bloodied face to a gasp,
A sigh, a kiss, a build dazzling the sky;
Yet grounded with hands outstretched,
Beckoning with a tongue of love.
It passes like an autumn gust,
But blossoms deep within the pit of me.
An itch of faith dribbles down my spine;
A drop of life trickles down my throat;
A heat bursts forth, inexplicably snug to my soul.
My parched lips crack with new resolve.
The wet of death is sapped by that word,
That one word, a remark of assurance
The word for all times and for all things
Eternally bound to all adjoining collapse
To the overthrown, demised, and ruined
Who swiftly choke on the sight of the word
It stops, stuffed of compassion
And boldly declares itself: “Live!”