THE HOUR OF REDEMPTION

The clock on the wall was almost dead.
Trapped at a nightmarish distance
from things defined by action,
Fallen helpless through the crack
between impulse and motion,
An occasional twitch of the limply splayed hands
alone betrayed its horrific suspension.

Across its frozen face were etched the symbols of its purpose
In twelve redundant dictums:
"I. TELL. TIME."
But now, each failed iteration thrust a burning poker
Through the case and towards the innards,
Burning away, like so much chaff,
all structure and meaning and mystery.

I alone witnessed its torment
And resolved within myself
To proffer absolution.
For what had driven it to such anguish
And now prevented termination
Was the edict of its makers:
That a clock should run until it dies,
With no consideration for what falls between.

The involuntary power which had compelled
Each former movement,
And entrusted Time's vast burden
To straining metal hands
Was become wearisome,
An artificial incentive.
With the decaying battery, then,
I removed all pretense
That life and work are permanent,
Or that Peace is constrained to either.

When worldly cares and troubles weigh
Thy sinking spirit down
And all life's sad and sinful woes
Do threaten thee to drown

If yet thy struggling head alone
Remains the waves above
Tilt then thine ear in desperate hope
and mark the mourning dove!

Mark the mourning dove who flies
Beyond earth's binding snows
Mark the mourning dove whose skies
Share space with Heaven's throne
Mark the mourning dove who sighs
For suffering borne below
Mark him, mark him, as he cries
"Thy sorrows are My own!"

a tree is spiritual

in a book

a tree is god

behind each knot

within every bole

hide universal secrets

the shadow of a book tree

is long and significant

it withdraws not

it bends not

and every toadstool touched

turns a wild rose

timely snow lights mystical

upon outstretched limbs

limbs bearing majestic sweetness

in their easy levitation 

and lightsome span

in books

a tree bends

and there is shadow

a tree stoops

and there is fruit

true to see

like thoughts in three

books and trees are meant to be

tree

shouts the oak

what tree

screams the aspen

standing stark in sunlight

naked

shaven

raving 

without honor 

country
kin

wild with touch

cold to see

real in color

russet beards swooping low to brush the 

leaf-cluttered pavement 

mad 

utterly, freakishly mad

not to mention fringe

in their inestimable sobriety
the trees howl
caring nothing at all for books
or fantasies contained therein

on Saturdays

the skillet used to turn

five pieces - exactly five -

from livid scent to sanguine flavor

and we drew runes in the fat

tracing the oily patterns of our future 

with fingers

on the back of blue-rimmed diner plates

while we stacked cups and silverware 

in the sink

for Mom to pardon later

somehow the oil always washed away

scrubbed off, we supposed,

by the efforts of a tireless immortal who 

lived, breathed, and washed dishes on a higher plane of existence

than we ourselves could ever aspire to reach

even seated in a high-chair

but now the fat is gone

and with it all the flavor

rinsed clean by that immortal,

tireless effort

which eventually stymies us all

that housewife rule of nature which dictates where to set the dishes

and sometimes undercooks the future

though it never burns the past.

above our world

clouds sit like skin

clumping into white sheets and flakes

dry and cracked

where the sun has baked them too long

and over the surface of this skin

a cold wind is always rolling

there to be felt

though it cannot be heard

since its motion is not one so much of sound 

as of sight

and a vague stirring of the dark

that dims distant starlight

God's hand is in that wind

for he watches over each of us

big and small

and from time to time

stretches out his heavenly arm

with its long black fingers

to grasp us in His icy palm

shielding us from the harshness of unstable nebulae

which might otherwise dazzle or destroy our fragile condition

though we rarely thank Him here

down below the epidermis

where things are warmly lit 

and the blood of rivers running downhill

gives us joy 

to sit and ponder inmost beauty

without counting the magnitude of galaxies

or gripping smooth cold stones.

pentecost

it was the peak of summer

and they were all gathered in one place

the trees

and their leaves

by the stream

waiting for something

out of heaven

a star

perhaps

or a sign

waiting

as he who waits upon the Lord waits

green and immovable

when the sudden moon rose

and a chill fell

and with it 

a rushing wind from beyond

roaring

in a thousand distant tongues

the secrets of another sky

and the breadth of unknown spheres

and fire danced in the trees

ignited by the holiness

the otherness

of an unworldly speech

cold and empty

dry and bitter

unpolluted in its abstractedness

and nothing like a wheelbarrow

red or not

but the effect was still the same upon me

for the trees spun one thousand images

through every spoke of autumn color

and each was

indecipherable in its completeness

though none of them were drunk

as it was only noon.

epistemology

all that matters is

and what is

is beyond us

us

in our asphalt forests

surrounded and impossibly removed

from granite or ether

or either

for now that we are grown

to such great and terrible heights 

we stand worlds above 

our hallowed roots

and yet

still slip softly down

to empty air

on stillborn shorelines

down

through the thick and throbbing swell 

of blood-flecked waves

down down

below the foaming surface

ghostly in thought

down

ever softly down

to listless twilight grey

and shadows half-projected

by stars we’ve never seen.