Tragically Fading

A tragically faded, yellowed page in a book.
Your book. Left opened to the hanging last word.
A relic from a time before its writing brought discomfort.
The pain of which you so violently oppose.
You dispose of it each time the new words
give an inevitable cry to be written.

Yet the story demands to be continued.
As life does continue beyond your museum walls.
Walls that protect the words already penned,
when things were still safe, secure.
In times before pages turned brittle with your patient fear.
Yet writing more words now would to you
mean destroying the whole story.
Better to archive and preserve the life then live in it.

Memories of a Fire

As another log succumbs to the heat
Your outline illuminates into image.
A few long flickers dance in your eyes.
Slowly,
painfully,
Image fades to shadow,
To outline,
To smokey memory.

The perfect circle of glowing embers
Offers a warmth not needed,
But most welcomed.
We sit silent entranced by its rhythm.
Its movement, random and ever changing.
But we stare as if searching for some kind of pattern.
As if it were more true if it had one.

We stare not unlike into a tv,
but really not like it at all.
The tv offers escape.
This offers pause.
A mind haltering, frightening awareness.
An undistracted, unreserved conversation
between God and soul.

Our words are few.
They can offer little now.
Kierkegaard was right in that truth
Is in being, not knowing.
And as Chafer said,
I am in my being here with you.

We feed more logs to the smoldering heap.
As if placing fat on an alter.
Hoping its fragrance will please God,
so this moment of presence will not end.

Ode To A Pear

Far too long spent in the shadows
of your notorious cousins,
those damn forbidden apples
the root of all sins.

But you are the fruit far sweeter
melting on the tongue.
Bring joy to your eater,
sweet fragrance to his lung.

Bartlett and Bosch
red, yellow the same.
Give of your soft flesh
and I'll partake of your fame.

No imported fruit
has e'er come so near
my tastebuds to suit
as a fresh ripened pear.

Pear, oh pear
temptress to my soul,
steal my love you dare
from the peach's firm hold.

Pear, oh sweet pear
the fruit with nice hips,
I've fallen to your snare.
Come near now to my lips.

Still A Home

This empty house
has no life of its own.
Its vacant floors
void of all poetic tone.

But i keep on paying the bank 'cause it wants its money.
They must still think there's something there.
But life doesn't worry them.
Its all a bunch of wood to them, that they paid good money for.

Some speak of beauty that walls embody
and call it home.
I speak of people, beauty embodied,
and call them home.

Come through this door anybody.
Prove these bastards all wrong.
This place i live in, is not some dead loan
this place is still a home.

But i keep on paying the bank 'cause it wants its money.
They must still think there's something there.
But life doesn't worry them.
Its all a bunch of wood to them, that they paid good money for.

Borde del Agua

My toes curled around the final worn board of this dock.
Body leaned out, legs together, straight.
All forming a single trunk slowly falling
with arms like branches providing
no help against this momentum.

A rope pulls taut against my chest
suspending me in this awkward pose.
Its strength felt in the tightness
of my anticipating breaths.
My heart leaps forth unwilling to be bridled.
Breaking free of its dark cage
in surreal display of its freedom
as it reaches for the water awaiting.

No more waiting.
No more toes still touching wood,
ropes restraining from gravity's pull.
No more suspense of observing,
dreaming and never feeling.

Just then the water stops in a sudden calm,
its constant movement slowed and it stares back.
As if rising up from where it laid
to come eye to eye for the first time.
The rope frays and my chest fills deep with air
as my body is freed to fall forward
reunited to its charging heart.

In an instant - a state of shock, cold numbness,
refreshing bliss, invigorating life.
After so long hanging on the edge
How lovely it is being in the water here.

I am

I am layers of humiliation
waiting for wind and water,
in their persistent struggle,
to etch away layer by layer

at my eroding edifice of pride.

I am crossed wires
miscommunicating within myself.
Conversations had and not had,
both real inside my head.
Inside where there is no trust.

I am dust and air brought to life.
Created from nothing but hope.
Hope of rising to greatness,
which we seem to never achieve
before returning again to dust.

I am a morbidly aware man.
Aware of what I lack to be,
what these pieces of life mean,
of the joy and truth brought by the pain
of my ill-fated attempts at love.

An Old Sweater

This conversation's like an old sweater.
An unnavigable mess of tightly woven pasts;
stories yet told,
memories yet unleashed.
Protective patterns of insulation.

Out of curiosity you started pulling,
first at the tattered cuffs of the sleeves.
Innocent enough
but it wasn't enough.
Only partial stories, incomplete memories.

Slowly you unraveled me thread by thread
from waist to neck you revealed the hidden
complete truth.
Truth unprotected,
naked now standing at a pile of thread.

What comes next is yet unwritten.
This pile of thread, a new conversation.
Words yet spoken.
Beauty yet created.
But are you still curious?

Shadows and Wings

This scene in which I'm caught,
overlooking an abandoned farm,
its thirsty land,
falling down barns,
has stuck my thoughts
on life turned cold.
Forgotten things.
Stories untold.

Along this field-stone wall,
a raised scar stretching across
the overgrown field,
I sit and I pause.
Having chased my soul,
what I thought it desired
all I found was myself,
empty, lonely and tired.

The pestilent weeds mock me
in their anarchic state.
Years of neglect,
I share their fate.
The wildflowers taunt me,
their beauty I forsake.
Hollowed, I realize
I am my own mistake.

Darkness creeps up the wall.
In it now I'm covered
as the sun retreats,
safe from all suffered.
Like a flightless bird
that shutters as it sings
I'll hide behind
these shadows and wings.

on a man at his window

There is a window, unpeculiar, framed
by a dingy white wall. With seeded glass
being both imperfect and unique. Aged
as the eyes that peer through it, enchanted.

There is a soft pale linen stretched in part
over the window; anchored, yet willing
to take flight in the morning's breeze. Take
flight as the man's gaze- effortless, weightless.

There is a table, worn from the gathering
and sharing of countless meals. The counted
joys; all but gone, all but a chair to sit.
To be fully present, yet fully lost.

There is this man, unpeculiar as his
window, his portal, remembrance of place.
Being designed for place and place designed
for him; at home, in his gaze, in his chair.

Economy of a Child's Death

A child died today
nameless.
Faceless to most - so why care?
A limp small doll in large hands
unnatural.
Grey battered face,
closed eyes.

A casualty of war,
not her's.
But fought for her they say.
What do they know.
All I know is,
there's one less little girl.

Now she's a number,
a cost.
An economic bargain at that.
How many are convinced,
their lives
are worth more than hers.
Guiltless.

Such lies we have lived by.
Thousands,
for one low price, one life.
How much worse than really
thousands dead,
to save one child's life.

A casualty of war,
not her's.
But fought for her they say.
What do they know.
All I know is,
there's one less little girl.

Who is Who

Among us stand both
deceivers and the decieved
guides and the guided
manipulaters and the manipulated
enchanters and the enchanted

Among us stand both
the fearful and the feared
the couragous and the encouraged
haters and the hated
lovers and the beloveds.

Among us stand both
gossips and the gossiped
servants and the served
rejecters and the rejected
exalters and the exalted.

But who is who
Do we see each in its whole
or in its part
Singular or plural
When divided along these lines
we are divided within ourselves
Singular and plural
whole and part

For I am both deceiver and the decieved
I am the servant and the served
I am the fearful and the feared
I am the lover and the beloved
I am the who

minimal undefined

these curses i am under
relieve me of expectations
survived by monotony of thought
pursuing the corners of a round room
ponderous noises creep in
like clockwork overworked
overstreched senses craving black
craving the dark night
where i might disappear
a solitary shadow cast against
a welcomed canvas of shadows as dark
silence framed by the edges of a sound
pause brought into focus
monotony starved of definition
rooms starved of corners
truth approached humbly

The Protestor's Call

What is my call?
What is it that awakens my bones from their slumber?
It is the whip.
The leather straps like razors that tore His skin.

What burdens my heart?
What great weight of oppression must I drag?
It is the timbers.
The rugged wood cross that He bore on his shoulders.

What brings me to my knees?
What endless toil is suffered, under which one falls?
It is the earth.
The king brought as low as the dirt on which He walks.

What loss is suffered?
What bond so tight as if ripping one's own flesh must be broken?
It is family.
His mother's pain that He now bears but is driven forward by.

What is my humility?
What pride must be shed in order to continue the journey?
It is the fellow-traveler.
The brother which willingly carries the burden for Him.

What is my humanity?
What gift of love will there be to aliven me along the way?
It is her compassion.
The gentle touch of the woman who cleaned Him of disgrace.

What peace is mine?
What realization of the finitude of one's own life?
It is His understanding.
His wisdom to recognize that dust always returns to dust.

What great multitude?
What community of lovers do I suffer with, suffer for?
It is His beloved.
The poor, depraved, outcasts which surrounded His feet.

What final surrender?
What breaking of will must come to sacrifice wholly?
It is his brokenness.
Divinity yet flesh. Immortal yet mortally defeated.

What vulnerability?
What complete lack of security in one's self, in one's power?
It is his nakedness
Stipped bare for all to see, yet dignified in his purity.

What freedom lost?
What captivity yet needed to secure myself in Him?
It is the nails.
Meant to hold Him captive, yet lacking the power.

What brings death?
What will so violently lead me to give even my life?
It is His death.
Alone, naked, violent. Suffered for those that betrayed Him.

Put In My Place

From nowhere, water sprays from the rock
and careens down the slime green surface.
A constant flow, random splash, intrancing rhythm.
It knows not its role and is gone as quickly as it came.

Staring at the underbelly of earth, at time itself.
Thick strokes of calcium white, hightlight its age.
Millions of years of this water, trickling, creating.
As if the hand of God had molded it from clay.

Laying beneath this precariously hanging rock
Millions of pounds of earth not yet worn away.
Its gravity sets heavily on me as the sun fades.
A shiver climbs through me as the rock cools.

Under this weight, carried away by this rhythm.
In the shadow of the face of time,
I feel small, insignificant. Better yet,
My worries and my troubles feel small, insignificant.

I feel put in my place.

A Brief Company

Ten o'clock, a Friday night in February.
The shop is dead and I've had enough
of waiting to serve, waiting on no one.
My only company comes from two of the most regular customers.
Not customers in the strict sense as they never buy anything.
They just enjoying being here, being welcome.
The night is turning cold, winter finally settling in
months late. Tony is unphased by it,
as he bums cigarettes on the porch.
The two big garbage bags he brought tonight leave me suspicious.
He's back on the street - again.
After doing so well for so long with some cocktail of meds
dulling out his dillusions, they had started sneaking back.
CIA agent before 10.
Killed in action, reincarnated.
Canadian Prime Minister
Keyboardist for James Brown.
He tells me he's not afraid of dying, because he can't.

Daniel had already started to make his way home,
but came back spooked by a mob of teens looking for trouble.
His reaction defines much of his life
Scared, tormented, surviving.
I assure him I'll walk with him until he's safe. Agreeing,
he goes to the bathroom one last time,
more, I think, for the brief opportunities of privacy
than nature's calling. I do the same thing.
Locking the door behind us it becomes obvious
Daniel has no intention of walking past those guys
even with me. He knows something I don't.
The three of us standing blank faced on the porch steps,
wondering what separate paths to take next, instead climb together
into my escort and drive off past the mob
and the now 5 cop cars gathered around them. Daniel was right.
A layer of protection is still up among us, as it always is. Individuals,
sharing a lonely car ride, a lonely cold night, together for a moment
but in our silence still separated. Still individual.

I drop Daniel off at a dark spot on West Clifton,
presumably a friends house. He won't be going to the woods tonight,
his beloved camp. His refuge has turns against him,
causing him considerable stress. 40’s of Machabelle stolen,
pouches of leaf tobacco and blankets soaked
and someone is spitting on him while he sleeps.
Still he speaks of it as a rich man would of a beloved mansion,
except with more pride and love of place.
Though he by no means owns it, it is by a great deal more his
than anything that I own is mine.
I watch in the mirror, him staggering down the sidewalk.
His drunk eyes searching as best they can
to find the familiar door of a friend.

Tony directs me to Walnut Hills as I probe him to figure out
if he really has a place to stay. Though he assures me of it,
I mention other options anyways.
But the homeless shelter is a bad word,
a last resort neither of these guys are willing to risk.
I have no way to relate.
We navigate onto the neglected side streets of Walnut Hills and stop
next to a big brick house with construction rigs covering the front.
Still unable to determine Tony's credibility, I unload his bags
and slowly drive off. He disappears into the dark alley
before I even get turned around. The mystery will remain.
Alone now I drive to my own cold, lonely home.
Unable to react to the thoughts of place, warmth, friendship
churning in my head I turn on the TV to fall asleep.
The needed voices of strangers offer what little company they can.