Planting a seed
Takes time
The right light and warmth
And moisture
At fingertips
With you
It's worth every minute
Of waiting and tasting
Every pulse
Every wave
Quietly announcing
We found divinity
Planting a seed
Takes time
The right light and warmth
And moisture
At fingertips
With you
It's worth every minute
Of waiting and tasting
Every pulse
Every wave
Quietly announcing
We found divinity
You are the mirror of my worst
Show me what I look like, to your face
But once we face each other
I can’t fight you, for you
You’ll need to slice knuckles on glass to get to me
And prove that dead men do bleed after all
Once there is blood
You’ll bleed the most
If you refuse to heal
If you retreat into solitariness with your angst and shame
Instead of meeting together in our tears
I was born into this womb of a world
And kept alive by a wannabe doctor
That’s the best I can say
About one's contribution
Fed from the pulpit
One Sunday at a time
I wasn’t fed poison or medicine
It was more like chips and soda for breakfast
And microwaved lasagna and fruit punch for dinner
Without blushing or sarcasm
It's what the doctor ordered
Is it possible
He married a pagan
To subdue and humiliate?
All was grand until her first episode
The box opened and never shut without medication
For many years he cared for her
Like a drunk german shepherd
Migrating from the Czech republic
To old steel mills with pride and headship
For many years he loved her
And she felt loved as long as she wasn’t anxious
And he often made her anxious
With his bitter barks
Please hand me a pillow to shove down a throat
To silence and comfort us all
God only knows what we saw and heard
At home and while driving
God only knows her bite was as nasty as his bark
Couldn’t he try to empathize or listen?
At some point that became impossible
She was crazy
He tried everything but a straightjacket
And tenderness and humility
Vulnerability in the face of shame
He even wailed and cried for demons to be cast out
And it didn’t work
She was possessed with crazy Love
All that was needed to reciprocate love:
Change into the prince she needed
It makes perfect sense if you think about it
Oil and water mix perfectly
He’s oil. She’s water.
He’s anointed priest and patriarch of the Lord’s lost tribe
She’s baptized to serve and bathe in submission
To offer her last lepta for salvation
And birth a man-child for kidnapping, if need be
So the Spirit turned water into wine
To make him drink a cup of fury
Before pouring it over his head
And so, what came to be in response to the beloved’s anointing?
A wife was found to meet and help
To frame mischief with a law
A court set up to accuse and excuse
Witnesses reared to testify
To put her to death
And they did, like compliant little pups
Who imagined their mother abandoned them for demons
Good riddance, they thought
Now we can finally have a real Christian home
Most holy Lady, mother of mine
My soul fills with sorrows
I want to say something good
Because there is good to be spoken
But good necessitates beauty
And every time we talk or text
Or meet in person
He’s predictably awkward and ugly
I could say that to his face
But he can’t see the good in it
What else could I say?
To his face, I could cry
Saying he never has changed
He has never listened
He has never learned
Although he’s intelligent
And has ears that hear
He uses both to posture peculiarly
Sometimes politely, to not appear so strange
Most times, to be the expert in conversation
Far less, though, to sit in the seat of the scornful
That would be good to say
But he can’t receive it favorably
As the wounds of a friend
It’s just another wounding
An opportunity for imprecation
Like Saul clutching the spear
He’s tough and fearless as a lion
And fierce in battle as the unicorn
Yet tired of battling within his home
For respect and guidance
For trust and honor
What now can be done now that he is exposed?
You tried to honor him
But he would not listen
You pleaded obsessively for him to learn
But he never could imprecate himself
And this time he can’t silence you
Your voice has gone out into all the world
Crying in a wilderness of error
Will there be change from now on?
I cry out to you, O Physician
I acknowledge your works of wonders for the dead
She describes your mercy in the grave
And your truth in destruction
Intercede for us sinners
Our souls draw near to Hades
Do not forsake us sinners
O God, forgive us our sins
And have mercy on us.
Many think I’m crazy
Am I really?
I merely record moments
and paint punctiliar seasons
like the tree I see here and there,
the one planted along channels of water.
What I feel, I bleed out,
scratched onto thin slices of its innards:
Pain, trouble,
confusion, certainty,
embodied and at peace
in mystery and glorious favor.
There’s more to life than facts and physics,
making math reality.
My systematics are securely obscure,
like millions of pounds of rain,
floating above a desert
and I don’t care when it drops a tear,
or if it ever does
because the dead are raised,
the impious destroyed,
the living reign with us
into the ages of ages;
and there is not a God damn thing anyone can do to change that.
I’m working on it
Nibbles of taste buds at a time
don’t seem to be as effective
as jawbones lopping off lengua
and knitting it back together
with toothpicks
Bite your tongue, they say.
I have, many times.
See this stitch?
And this one, ad infinitum?
If you pick these sutures apart
I bleed, too.
And so would she.
That’s why I wear the beads of her hands
of gold and white,
elasticated and easy to snap,
suffocating my skin every day.
We actually feel pain, you know.