Showing posts with label Poetria. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetria. Show all posts

Thursday, January 7, 2021

In God we trust



Today I found a bag rescued from the town and country

like a feline with no name

meowing and scared, afraid of being found

with pinches of value

She tucked away each memory

individually wrapped by fingers drawing closer to divinity

Fifty two here

Twenty two there

with no explanation as to why

And then just one quarter was wrapped by its lonely, satiny self

minted in 1983 — In God we trust 

Coincidence?

Are there such things?

Then came the receipt of cleaning supplies

paid for with an even five doll hairs

purchased exactly three months before never worrying about them again

Only twenty seven cents was preserved from germs that hour

Then, magically, one single penny appeared

wrapped alone like the nibble of a sandwich saved for future hunger

with 2019 stamped across its face

followed by another nibble of 2019

each sealed by a plastic knot so if one escapes

the other is preserved

In God we trust again

I now touch the closest relics

before life everlasting

touched me







Friday, January 1, 2021

1st week of 3rd jubilee


I see your troubles, invisible to me

I breathe your air, suffocating me

I dream your imaginations, portending of me

In the dream 

We draw near the gate of God with breakfast cakes

I also ascend silently halfway up the mount with chunks from my wounded gut

We silently discuss the merits of muted screaming

In the dream

You hate because the demons eat your pain like starving gluttons

You mock because the demons applause and cheer like it’s monday night football 

You bite through flesh because the demons love seeing wives get slugged in the face 













Reunione

 

We all gather around the room

from a hundred miles or more

to pray and eat

and hold phones

We watch a large screen

with no sound

and think of what to speak

with vaporous breath

We hug and shake hands

with love thawing in each embrace

except one with whom there is none

for to thaw might look like tears











Friday, December 25, 2020

Bloodletting

 


I sit in its seat.

The brown weaves crackle below me.

The process begins, and this cold concrete doesn’t offer me advice, 

like it should.

At least there are no more flies 

biting, like they were around the trailer, 

nagging my ankles and forearms with questions.

I now bite myself with questions

for myself 

young and old,

to see if dead men do bleed after all.


How can there be reconciliation without metamorphoses?

How can there be a ‘we’ again without transfiguration?

And not the superficial kind, with how-are-you’s and what’s-new’s.

The last ten years of those have been boring,

showing that they never knew how to care

beyond patriotic duties and civil niceties. 

I would have preferred anything really attentive instead.

I still would. 

But I avoid much of it now.

The broad, sweeping excuses,

the punts away from guilt and pity 

and empathy. 

There’s no interest in exploring or learning.

There’s no questioning.

It doesn't even matter if the grass is greener on their side.

All that matters is that there is true grass on their side.

Yet I still see weeds.

I also see unnecessary hours of mowing and money on fuel pissed away.

They’re all experts before the conversation begins, too.

They only unveil one goal, even if other offers lie beneath.

Blame the student and give him a bright red dunce cap as a gift.

They think they know because they presuppose 

and can read minds. 


They keep their distance, too.

He’s heterodox—barely Christian;

and barely is a kind description. 

Let’s presume he’s really evil or foolish or both.

Some sugar coat morsels with justification and predestination

as though those mysteries encompass and satisfy life’s queries.

Others just pounce with feelings and peacemealing.

Others with just law.

They don’t read between the lines, beyond shakespearean wherefores.

They prooftext tropes and demolish idols. 

Context matters little in their apologetical schemes. 

When a boiling point is reached, they ask vagaries.

’What’s your problem?', as though there’s a missing key 

withheld from them with childish cruelty.

To even share a problem is to implicate one’s self as the problem,

unless they share the problem. 

And to claim to have no key is to deceive. 


A brief list might suffice, though.

Will they even allow one to be offered?

Then more blame will return to the sender. 

Did you vow to love through sickness and health? 

I can hear their squeals now—She did it first! 

In what ways do you think you failed us? 

I hear ignorance and deflection masquerading as principled profundity.

Now is not the time to spring this on us, as though we keep a record of such things.


So then, forget about the years when we were too young to understand. 

Do you remember any ways you failed us as adults? 

The sound now becomes difficult to interpret. 

It’s either a rhythmic chirping or blame shifting

like none of that matters. But it’s a sound nonetheless

—the sound of having moved on. 

Yes, some mistakes were made. Some.

Let’s not talk about those now. 

None were serious enough to warrant disdain now

Let’s all acknowledge it superficially and shout that from mountaintops 

so we can all move on and not relive the past.


More than ten years have passed predictably,

and I still I don’t like or want that. 

And I don’t want their grandchildren to endure that either. 

I could have that with anyone. 

I could even find parts at Walmart to fix it.  

What we need is more valuable and difficult to mine. 

Remarkably, I have found a path toward it now.

I drove around its buildings and sidewalks. 

I parked on its roads and played across its playground. 

I walked its yellow brick road. 

I visited the apartment it lived in. 

I dined with its shepherd. 

I visited its library and perused the books it borrowed. 

I sat in the seat it died in and noticed the trees it sang about. 

I noticed the light it saw shining down from the one who reigns above. 

But they won’t talk with me about any of that. 

It remains dead to them while remaining very alive to me. 


They imagine this new love erupting in order to hurt them. 

Yet the truth is actually much more helpful. 

It offers me vulnerability and honesty 

—a life worth learning and exploring

What they offer is utterly replaceable. 








Monday, December 14, 2020

Sycophancy

 


Look at you

Sharing photos of distant isles and lonely trees

A coffee and cigar for Saturday

Vacations with your civil war mistress

Living your best life now


Look at you

As dapper and pinteresty as can be modeled

With briar in hand and that leather satchel on display

Poised, smug, and refined

Living your best life now


Look at you

So nuanced, yet eager to pounce with repulsive cruelty

With centuries of studies and feigning at your fingertips

Backing up each meme with sycophantic emojis

Living your best life now


Look at you

Labeling and laughing at innocent victims and their paraclete

With your nursing confidence and phone in hand

Ready to justify what poisons, cripples, and slays to save

Living your best life now












Sunday, December 13, 2020

Recompense



I cry for them daily

Words I never imagined before this year

Clear tears

Blotting the ink, piercing each page

As I learn what I was never told, and reflect upon what I was sold

You were right all along

He hated you like Ciaphas

He prayed against you like the Psalmist

He avoided you like the Levite

He made things difficult for you, as recompense for holding back his calling

He thirsted for justice like Pharisees

He got the secretary he always needed, and dumped you like Judas

He also poisoned us with his bitter root, like the Judaizers

Once you were cut off you were dead to him

All your tears dried up by his subtlety

Clear tears

Never to be seen by us again, until you were raised

And here I am now, with your scriptures denouncing his sacred cow

Wishing you cried with us daily













Saturday, December 5, 2020

December 2020




I see your demands

Snowflakes, all of them

You see me cold, frozen

Dry ice, steaming predictably

I see your right to privacy

Do you see mine?

You see us close together as a door and knob

You are now open, and I shut

I see you prophesy my motives

It’s going to hurt him, and you know it

You see her open our door

I see and welcome her

You see her and shut our door

I see her motives

It’s to heal from the hurt, and I know it

You see her pains, her fears, her hopes, her vices

I open, you shut

I see your priorities

Do you see mine?

You see me assuming I know everything

Insanely disrespectful, lacking empathy

I see your apologies

These, too, are seasonal











Asking for a friend





O Lord,

Thou hast said, As much thou hast seen me, thou hast seen the Father.

I have seen thee.

I have seen the Father. 

And so I ask, 

As much as I have seen my own mother, have I also seen thine?









Sunday, November 29, 2020

Imprecation

 

Is not Alexander his name?

And a coppersmith his trade?

No, sayeth one of the Annointed's apostles

Such is the record of another man

yet this one did as much evil nonetheless

and hath received rewards according to his works

for he hath greatly withstood our words

Be thou ware of him

imagining one’s self to be a new Moses

supposing his brethren would understand 

that God would deliver by his hand

But they understood not

while he gloried in imprecations

Becoming a terror to good works

he destroyed the image of God

and established a rival of divine justice 

He knew that no man hath greater love 

than when his life is laid down for his friends

So he condemned her as no friend

and framed her as God’s enemy

He justified his own and stopped caring for hers

as though God hath rewarded his equity

If she suffered from wrong, it was no longer by him

for he was no longer called to help her through suffering

having suffered much already

His calling now was to smite pharaohs, not keep covenants

Wilt thou ever interrogate thy self O Adam?

What inhabits thy mind now?

What kind of soul dost thou have now?

The soul of a predator or its prey?

Answer the call of accountability preached by thee

Let no rank seek exemption

Frame no more mischief with law or its grace










Growing up

It’s a strange feeling to have her closer in proximity than you

You were there growing up with us, when we both seemed dead

You became close to both of us only when the family divided and fell apart

You dragged me, effectually, as the puritans would say

But her…You towed her away

I now study her scriptures and ask, How did you survive?

Why did you survive?

I was given so much after everything fell apart

You had so much taken away that never returned

You abandoned us, perhaps, for a summer

But we abandoned you and cut you off like cancer

And we never returned

But you did return

Thank you for returning

And please, thank him for returning you to me

Such intercessions tow me closer in proximity to him












Thursday, November 26, 2020

God is love



The clock ticks with his voice

Nothing is said, but he calls us

Outside of time, the virtual aristocracy opines

Within time and above it, according to mumbles within armchairs

These are the kinds of games nintendo can’t fathom

And as the clock ticks, I hear little feet offer their cadence above

Little animals playing in his zoo

All will wither and fade as the food they consume

Some will be deified and—hopefully—become zookeepers

I hear them dropping thingamabobs on the firmament above, as the clock ticks with his voice






Sunday, November 22, 2020

Protoevangelium



Save—save—save this imprint of every passing memory with stars marking one idea after another.

No page of your Scriptures shall be forgotten.

You are like a star shining over the cosmos with miracles, holy mother of mine.

And so I sing a hymn of praise with you, the one presented in the temple of God, during this great feast.

There we will offer gifts in a double portion.

There, in the garden, we will walk together and receive food from the hand of an angel.

There, at the mountain of God, a mother and her child are received.

And if we cannot ascend this Mount together, let it split in two and take us down to hide us, and shine its light upon us, turning holy blood to stone around us.

Favor is with those who fear our Lord, to whom be glory into the ages—of ages—of Ages.