Close my eyes from weeping
At this scene. Unclench my hands
Against themselves in fierce and steely,
Vain restraint. He will hold the boy
As purchase for her salty flesh;
Call the boy’s name to whisper
Sultry pleasures in her ear; kiss
The boy’s forehead with knowing
Lips that taste her skin. The saints,
They bow their heads in praise of Providence,
Bless themselves with holy water;
Holy matter, this: child sacrifice
For a greater honor, glory,
And fitting for the God of Abraham,
Whose image and likeness is
Conflicted, double-minded man.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged Anger, Children, Conflict, Divorce, Doubt, Faith, God, Infidelity, Parenting, Relationships, Religion, Restraint, Sacrifice, Trust
Leaves have fallen, scattered
Compressed under the cold weight
Of November rains. This frigid
House feels vacant, save the mildly acrid
Plume of smoke rising timidly,
Unfurling haplessly from
My solitary cigarette. The wine -
It’s a Shiraz from Argentina -
Is cooler than permits full flavor,
But its dulling effects are manifest
No less; it answers quickly
What prayers regard unworthy of association.
Oh Christ, or saints, or angels! What is faith
In your unapparent patronage
But to alter an attitude toward
Trusting fate? This tree
Gave nothing freely. It fell asleep.
Praised nothing. Her leaves gave up
Trying to hold on to life,
Shriveled under lifeless atoms – by
Chance or design, it doesn’t matter -
Two to one that as one make them water,
Lifeless, pressing them down
To deteriorate into more of the same.
She trusted nothing – it was never necessary -
This tree. Granted, I am no tree:
But is my trust any more
Than her forced resignation
Imagined nobler by complex chemistries
Seeking balance within the dense matter
Crammed inside this skull?
I may choose it, yes (it seems).
But may choose as much as anything
That changes nothing in reality
Save perspective – a thing a tree
Can’t have, and suffers nothing by.
A few sips more, another cigarette,
And I’ll about to bed.
Would that I could sleep this long winter,
Unconscious of cold hearts, and wake
To brim with hope,
To have another go at something beautiful
That isn’t blackened, burdened by
Perpetual admonition of that crucifix -
The impossible demand to die to self,
And yet to will to be,
And exercise the will decisively -
Unlike this tree or her hapless leaves
Which, pressed into the ground,
Knowing no better, offer better praise
To “Being” by being without a will to,
And ceasing just the same.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged Death, Faith, Fate, Hope, Identity, Life, Nature, Perspective, Philosophy, Purpose, Religion, Trust
I knew her, once,
An alabaster form with liquid skin
Supple to the touch, and warm;
And lips retaining pensive breath
That but for the heat within her lungs
Could not be sensed
In that tender proximity to her still,
Kitten-like nostrils. I knew
Behind the iris of the eyes
That pierced my longing own
In our primal bed – before a distant hence -
A trying soul, a good heart, I knew.
Yet somehow, well beyond my reach,
Within and hidden in that heart,
Like a long-buried slit on a sapling bud,
Sinewy with time and roughed by the elements,
Quietly splitting it’s tenuous seam, it trickled
The long internal bleeding that would undo
The trying soul, and good heart I knew.
I did not see, and only sensed
By the growing rancor of her manner,
By the lurid ache about our bed,
The sea of bleeding within her soul,
Kept and compressed for such a time,
As glaciers form, formed onyx in her veins
As who I’d known, from the inside out,
As though at long, dreamy glances of Medusa,
Died, and turned to stone.
But molten, as it were, when within reach
Of any other man
On whom to relive the secret violence
Of slitting the buds of saplings,
Thinking it were love.
The form I knew still moves,
But it’s a winter storm that falls
From above the lips; behind
The iris of the eyes nothing left
To see, but hard onyx framing
The alabaster shell,
Like the casket in a funeral
That, open, will not end.
I’d not been sleeping when
Our hearts collided in that space
But hadn’t known, either, how bent
The wreckage; it seemed wonderful.
It was wrong.
You’ve gone now,
And taken with my heart, all three
That ever mattered; and with my purpose too,
And leave me none to go on
None I care to live for, not like this.
They all will say ‘we love you, stay.’
They all will say ‘you must.’
For why and how I cannot know,
And must I care? It’s pressure, all;
And all for whom – you love another
And so does he though I call him son.
Who all may suffer might suffer less
With some finality to this endless mess
Too many share because I bear it
When I could cast it off.
If He is Who He says He is,
Would understand. And if He didn’t,
Then He never was, and nothing lost
For having given up and gone.
Is it selfish to desire love?
Is it selfish to prefer not present hell
That future Hell can only lightly taste of?
They can say all, it won’t matter.
You, YOU tell me why I’m here.
And why not to go.
And I do mean go.
We were one, you and I;
But you are now, and I am none.