Grandpa

Human frailty incarnate in
A bead of water and salt
Forming in the corner of
An eye looking over the meaning of his
His life looking away shyly
And sliding slickly down the
Well-wrinkled cheek and onto the
Breast which heaves and wheezes and
Struggles to suck in enough air to survive.

Thursday in the Summer

Sink to the bottom of the ocean
With eyes turned upwards toward sky,
Where detachment illuminates consciousness
And eyes gaze unknowing towards freedom for the first time.
Cradled in waves of melody
While the world undulates and fades away,
Embrace the betrayal of senses
As warm asylum encompasses soul.
Enclosed in the caverns of spirit eternal
Where nothing seems to matter anymore,
Heart stops demanding things unobtainable
Only to find that fear and desire have no power to destroy.

In Whose Image.

I was the youngest of all of my brothers;
I was sickly and small and ill-timed.
Because I could not run so fast or think so cleverly
I was abandoned to die in the elements alone.
I reside in the darkness where I can find some shelter;
A cave of stench and stagnation and slime.
Into the pool my eyes behold a reflection
Sickly and small and ill-formed.
Skin ashen and meat clinging only loosely to bone.
In whose image was this creature forged?
Through what horror was his countenance so deformed?

Judas.

I shiver under the weight of all my sins;
I who have betrayed you.

Tears swell and burn and fall away
As fists and skull pound against brick.

Who can hope who has denied all hope?
Who can survive the uncovering of his secret shame?

I tremble because of the knowledge of my filth;
I who have betrayed you.

I have bowed down before the Golden Idol;
I have exchanged the truth for a lie;
I have bound up my heart in the blind folly of passion;
My tongue have I inflamed against you.

I shrink before your glory, Love,
I who have betrayed you.

Reflections on Humility.

The God of my Fathers
Came down to die
In the shame that all men must live.

The children sang hosanna and hallelujah.

Born a humble workman's son,
The nails in his hands held still the man
As he transformed indignity to Glory.

He sang hosanna and hallelujah.

A manger boy born destitute.
God has strengthened the weak
To conquer the stong.

Hosanna and hallelujah.

Burning down the summer sun
Comes boreing through the flesh of men
As beads of sweat, a bitter salt
Go sliding, dripping, sowing fields we till.
Muscles taut the beasts of burden
Raising high the iron tool, make cry:
“All flesh is grass
And its beauty is like the flower of the field.”

The conception of sophistry - an infancy of grey,
Rabid foam of previous passion dripping down and settling.

All around is pacifying, soothing and warming
The milk of contentment to trick our churning stomachs.

Flickering of black and white detracting from the
Dying tinder of sparks of rage and so much thirst for life.