Toward an open sea

sailing ship

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The tide turns

and the boat, no longer tethered,

churns a wake.

With leeward winds

abounding riches, a wait.

“Look” says she,

“that is where I was.

This, now, is where I’m going,

where the broad, flat earth

sprawls herself shamelessly under

the weighty horizon.”

So with constancy and dependence,

breeze on cue and love in the hull,

the water rubs her belly

and she leans toward an open sea.

 

 

Picture: www.erwinnavyanto.in

When hope has turned her lovely gaze – a sonnet

lovers kiss in the rain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 10, 2013

 

When hope has turned her lovely gaze

t’ward soft’ning night and bright’ning days,

then eye of light upon me stays,

revealing what love lifted.

* * *

Like still night air we find our voice,

intoned and waiting to rejoice

where darkness once denied this choice;

we find what love has sifted.

* * *

As hands, rejoined, now find their place

to touch a lover’s loving face

returned in heaven’s sweet embrace,

to learn how God has gifted.

* * *

Hope has promised paradise.

Promised grace, new love enticed.

Picture: www.weheartit.com

In the city

city

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have walked these streets

these cavernous coffins, sparkling but barren,

her belly bearing the swift and moaning metal tide.

 

She belches out her disapproval

and hungrily takes her place, an upward striving,

a downward gravity, host to vagabonds.

 

This headmistress of a language tasting

like rubber, and smoke and old pizza boxes

tossed together in a back alley salad of sad.

 

Here the fingers don’t touch across

the chapel ceiling, draped in mystery.

Here the collective taunt the painters with maintenance.

 

The broken, steely sky is punctured through

with a thousand fluorescent lights;

and night is confused with day.

 

Downtown hustlers shepherd their shivering flock

of skin and leather, studs and paint

so their shoes can match the shiny lights.

 

Down the sides, around the backs

over the heaps, through broken gates

go the wayward shadows…in the city.

 

Picture: www.city-data.com

 

 

 

 

Sonnet for one seeking to find their way

lonely girl

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All dialogue hid not her desp’rate groans,

instead were heard her pious reflections.

Since none could know what left her so alone,

from deep within her arose deflections.

* * *

When the way gets lost and roads are ending,

new pathways arise, revealing the way

to life’s redeeming freedom befriending.

Then it is tomorrow’s hope comes today.

* * *

Settle not yourself into the dark of night,

Lay yourself out upon God’s altar of light.

 

Picture: www.dailymail.co.uk

Finding Today

capelookout003

It is surprising how much time one can spend yearning for an unknown future or pining after a rose-colored past. I for one have lived too much in this unhealthy and unnecessary tension. The healthy version of the already but not yet is the glowing embers of a faith in what has already happened, what is presently happening and what is still to happen. That is a tension worth exploring.

I am speaking in more general terms. Today is like no other before it and unlike anything to come. It is absolutely unique in every way. Of course, it will have many features seemingly identical to those previously experienced that will give it a certain…predictability, at times ennui. But, for anyone seeking to practice life with God, it is anything but. Life can be routine but hardly predictable and never dull. Therefore, it pays to be consistently grateful and regularly hopeful.

I entered this day with old, familiar fears, recognizable yearnings and comfortable proclivities; the stuff that is my warp, woof and wake. God is not unfamiliar with these things in me. Nor is God particularly vexed by them since, to quote G.K. Chesterton, “sin [read all that doesn’t quite make the grade in life’s terms] is the least interesting thing about us to God.” Good thing because I’m especially gifted at it and have a few spectacular ones to my credit. Viewed through the wrong lens, they might easily be misconstrued as a jaunty tip of the hat to the devil (who or whatever that is).

To live life perched atop the twin cliffs of unfulfilled longing and unrealized dreams is to lean precariously over a bubbling cauldron of self-pity and willful blindness. That is an ugly, unwelcome concoction to be sure. It smells bad. It’s dangerous and never very fortifying. God brings so many people into my life. Some want someone to hear them laugh and rejoice. Others are hurting, needing the Jesus touch, which, at that exact moment, can only be brought by me. God is both willing and fully capable of doing so without me. But why, when I’ve been given the gift of inclusion in the secret schemes of heaven while living on earth?

The fact is that I/we, have been given life, physically and spiritually. I do not want to waste such a precious gift trying to foist upon the world the unwieldy clubs of self-pity, regret, self-doubt, self…anything. In seeking to be healed, I must seek instead to become an agent of healing. And I can only do that as I open my eyes to what my eyes first see.

In the days and months that drift lazily past like a prairie stream, things have changed. My mind has changed on stuff. I think differently about who I am and who I am not. I feel differently. I no longer feel the need to grope desperately in the darkness for any shred of passing light but, in the waning dark, revel in the growing light. As they say, “it’s a God thing.” Instead of grasping for things over which I have no control, I am striving to submit honestly and readily to things as they are; the life I am currently living.

The life I have is the one I embrace. Regardless of what may still be lacking, I lean into all that is and hope for what can be; for what is yet to come.

I am finding today.

Lusty Spring

spring flowers

 

 

 

 

The identifiable fragrance of Spring-like a poet’s muse

jumps out from behind every bush, reincarnating

the Spring before. Earlier winterish liaisons, now past,

succumb to her shameless, jaunty trysts

with a randy sun. They entangle, twisting

in whimsical lust and, in their embrace,

Summer is born.

 

Picture: www.auracoffee.co.il

Parking Lot Poems VI

HS glory days

Glory days

Why does he keep coming back?

He doesn’t belong here.

At least his buddies

still think he’s cool.

Or so they say

when they’re not

scared to

death.

* * *

Cafeteria politics

Why could she never sit here?

Her tits weren’t big enough;

her face, not pretty.

So, instead, her

answer was

always

“yes.”

* * *

Behind the bleachers

He fumbles with her bra strap,

his body hot with lust.

Her apprehensions

keep on growing;

something else

forcing

in.

 * * *

“I think I’m pregnant”

“I think I’m pregnant,” she said,

ignoring his disdain.

“Well, you wanted it,”

he said, coldly.

Then turning,

he just…

left.

* * *

Bullied

He knew that he was diff’rent.

They knew he was a fag.

They trapped him outside.

Whimpering there he,

bloodied and

alone,

cried.

* * *

Picture from www.timnaas.deviantart.com

Parking Lot Poems V

airport line

At the airport

Folks who get there the latest

always have much to say

about the line-ups,

how slow they move,

and Muslims,

behind

them.

* * *

Speeding Ticket

Sometimes the best excuse wins.

“Officer, see this hair?

If it’s not perfect

by three o’clock

I’ll never

get the

job.”

* * *

Bitch-Slap

“So, is that what you’re wearing?”

“Of course. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s just rather…brave

to wear those stripes

with a body

that doesn’t

really…

work.”

* * *

Starbucks

He sits and faces the door.

That way, people see him.

And that’s why he’s here:

just to be seen,

with laptop

and a

smile.

* * *

fart on the elevator

From the Elevator

A strange and heavy odor

now forces through the air.

Will someone claim it?

Just disdain it?

Add to it?

It was

me.

* * *

Airport picture: www.mlive.com

Elevator picture: www.funnyordie.com

Monday

hope floats

Painting: “Hope floats” by Winnie Givot

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ground lay still, her humped, brown shoulders

shrug off a tacit morning mist.

“What just happened?” she seems to ask the sprawling heaven.

“Things shall once again grow here”, the answer comes.

And the cloudless sky locks eyes with the hopeful ground

and whispers, “yesterday, I tasted royal blood.”