Poetry Strewn Along Life's Pathways
lingering swoosh
letting almost too much in, no barriers
yet so few know its there, have the address
"branch number 4, gnarly oak"
from either side the view is outside
only butterflies alight on the side
transfixed in a memory of translucent emergence
window #3
the dust shimmers sideway on my uphead hole
a staved beckoning of earth wet rock
should I recount the words which skid along the slime?
should I have kept an accountant's notation of the echoes?
it is my crazy time, weirdness and huffing and hallooing
I cannot control it, the hole is for flushing
the debris from within oneself
I know that if I stand on head that it would be beneath me
and I could fall, clawing at greasy spit walls
and be deposited on terra celestial but
only my shadow is spliced by the bars
my chains restrain my dreams, keep me clear headed
window #4
I most times, almost can never but edge towards it in the dark
monstrosities & magnificences, like unto kaleidoscopic
one's emotions are leached, on the half hour as
the sun trades light with the moon, and
the messages from beyond jump from somber to excited to awful,
this jeweled window, this stained page of the divine book
shatters souls, heals minds, wards off the demonic
and on overcast days comforts only the widows
window #5
wash, wash, wash dreaded dreadful dirty job
worse than her hairy lip, aging
more irritating than tv static
far worse than the indefatigable dirty kitchen floor
wash, wash, wash dreaded dreadful
every vision is blurred, each wipe paints another smear
only to be clear is to see what a new angle reveals
smudge, unclear, unclean, horrible, impossible!
it is an eyeball into our untouchableness
whereas we seek joy in its transference of out and in
accepting it as almost a wonder of nature, protector
translator, transformer, faithful without fail
when we undrape, vision is always granted
yet, "I don't do windows!” masks but slightly
the allurement, the mystery of the pane
Sanctum
Juking on Luke 15
"This fellow," they said, "welcomes sinners and eats with them!"
the three children settled into the table
a monstrous feast lay before their eager hands
ham and potatoes and peas awake in their sporting colors
and grace was said with a resounding "AMEN'
she watched the ants ravage the remains
of the meagerly meal
and she consecrated with them
chanting with the growls in her stomach
McDonalds was lined with the itinerant beggars
drawn by the-magical division of potatoes
and the multiplication of the cow's scant flesh
into the sustenance which lingered beyond taste
"Rejoice with me!" he cries, "I have found my lost sheep."
by truckloads, in vans, endless jumble of transports
the herd of excited faces was carried
clamoring their claim, "It is me!" "IT IS ME!"
snubbed against the plasticine barrier
his eyes jogged up and down, this way and that
the hand he sought was accompanied by a stained foot
and he yearned to touch to affirm the identity
for the 7th time that night
the red lights flashed by the curbstone
and one more man-child blackened by lack of breath
was stashed in the medicinal purse
and chauffeured, home not stopping for the lights
"In the same way, I tell you, there is joy among the angels of God
over one sinner who repents."
after the fairy tale and the laughter of monsters
the beardless youth tugged at his mother's dress
"Why do we say "Our Father" ?" he shyly requested
and the moon shone brightly till the dawn.
I will not break, she muttered,
nor bend nor sto6p nor curse beneath their silences
I will not shatter their hearts
with the hatreds cemented into these walls
as the breakfast hour rushed out on comic strip laughter
25,000 less than awake Denverites
turned-the keys in their cars
and threw a cosmic hum towards the cloudless skies
fumbling for her place the Abbess
began to recite the Confiteor
as Sister Jane genuflected before she crossed the altar
[9/83]
Juking on Luke 21
“Take care that you are not misled,” (Luke 21)
beware the bus driver who collects for salvation
watch the left hand of the one-legged preacher
stoop not to support the arm of the craggy grandmother
“For many will come claiming my name, and saying ...”
Burma Shave out-haves them all!
Pepsi is the real thing!
The Yankees are Number One!
We try harder!
“Do not follow them” is the counsel
Trust not thy brother or sister mother or child
The Spirit leaves the dead to bury the dead
And only a corpse signs the post on The Way
“But hot a hair of your head shall be lost.”
a chilling consolation to the army of bald men
even newborns cannot be tricked by this sleight of hand
Madison Avenue lusted for the copyright to the jingle
“For there will be great distress in the land and a terrible judgment upon this people!”
despair at the curbstone over the last forever brown bag
flailing anger at the split fingernail
all the children were born with green eyes
The TV outage lasted for four hours: no Superbowl!
“I tell you this: the present generation …”
has found “IT!”
new relics of ancient script found on Egyptian toilet paper
lead by the bionic Mom and Dad
weaned on the machine begotten by the machine
only those over 6 feet tall
“ ... will live to see it.”
“ ... I am he”
“The Day is upon us.”
The Pope is Jewish.
“By standing firm you will win true life ...”
as a quaking Aspen embraces the storm
in respect for the crane who stilts on one leg
amazed at the fecal stained tramp who smiles fetchingly
stunned by the passion of a passing kiss
“The Day is upon us”
where my hand touches air you begin
gravity is discovered as centered in my heart
words are the clothes that freedom wears
a crowd begins to hum and the Spirit strikes forth from our ears.
“Be on the alert, praying at all times ...”
Juking on Matthew 27:46
at the turn of the corner i caught the gnarled body
on the lamp post gurgling in intoxicated tongue "Eli,Eli,lama sabachthani?"
the soap fresh face of the hooded monk
swung in golden arcs fumes to quench the stink,
and fraters in swishing dresses broke flat bread
in soundless mockery of the broken bones in his side
she turned to me in a whip of anger
froth amused itself on her bubbling words
"You promised me!" and again "You promised me!"
I laced my shoes and forgot my
handkerchief as the clock chimed and my time was up.
not realizing that he was a child
his arms failed and shocked his heart
as he battled to grab the shirt-collar
of the woman plunging to her death in his bed.
as the bodies were counted
with marks appropriately placed on the ledger
the guard stifled a yawn
as he stoked the ovens for their repast.
in dutiful disarray the garden exposed itself
flouting the offspring of wild seeds
and airborne messengers of late summer
at the bus stop the children were arranged in proper lines
not knowing their destiny
while parents disappeared in unmarked cars
and left indecipherable messages on bloodstained papers.
But the others said, “Let us see
if Elijah will come and save him.”
[9/83]
An Editorial Never to be Printed
they burned witches in Boston
and Cotton Mather embraced himself in prayer
praying for their soul's salvation
with words drawn from the scabbard
of wild men's yearnings
i stood at that spot in years gone by
placing my feet upon the shadows of his footprints
and i recited his prayers
but this time they were for him, alone
when the subway noisily awakens the avenue
the screeching lamentations of burning tongues
fade into the overwhelming smiles of outsized billboards
advertising new slogans with which to bait the witches
Boston is dead and has died too many times
after resurrections magically staged by Madison Avenue
but the ardour of the witch hunters is yet requited
as guide books are spewed in Sunday additions
to the Sports Section and tacked on to churchly bulletins
take fear you witches and seeds of the Black Rose
the sweet rain which has fallen to nourish you
has raised the curse of the Crystal Knight
who is relentless in pursuit of the Holy Grail
which is stained with your Ancient Blood
[9/83]
Franciscan Monks, Indiana: Many Moons Ago
they move slowly by each other's shadows
rushing their prayers towards the morning light
machines of dutifulness
cracking out codes from ancient scripts
as they assemble at their terminus
slips of incense bind them together
as common breaths are startled by chants
of "Awake! Awake! the Son has arisen!"
in the midst of what dawn exposes as splendor
the stealth of ages
residing in golden memory and bejeweled hopes
presents itself in the mockery of saltless bread
will they remain forever but each other's shadows?
craving a sunlight which sets in a foreign land
calling forth a voice which speaks a strange tongue
will they remain ... are they still there?
i left 20 years ago, a deaf