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.

i rise electric

a sunbeam introspect

fabricating bright vistas

to please the derelict 

inside

no, my walls aren't true blue

but snake green shame

can fill a room too

so I keep it this way

like a box for things hidden

silenced

unwanted

forbidden

suppressed lest what beguiles my eyes

be less than what's the very best

that's how I am

just like all the rest

i fear to conjure any test

to what gives life its zest

but I digress!

i rise electric

and shock the world to color

and the gray of truth subsides to me

the iridescent other

Yellow leaf, don't fall far.
For in your decline,
So swift and so soft,
We witness the death of a star.

A lifetime in a novel, the universe in a poem.

and so i lived

tumbling down a catacomb tunnel,
such as slips and slides
blindly, sandy and sinuous
without sacrificing
loud new york angles

no streetlights

sharp and extra
no grip
just an eternal truth
of falling wooden blocks

the moon in a man

the 

moon

they say

has a man

inside her but

we know better

each man actually

has the moon in him

bitter folding over and over and whoops there she goes against the odds but our sanity greater is love.

White as youth

And flapping joy

A butterfly

Across a field

Of purple fruit

A tattered rag

Drifts like life

Like weeds in the wind

A flower patch

The green ones grow

The brown ones die

Like butterflies.

Squeeze out the hour like

Damp from a cloth

Make the time last

As you drain every drop

Purpose is precious 

And night's all you got

Daylight just proves

You're not at the top.

I bought a bird with a broken wing.

Yes, I bought a flightless flyer.

I saved and saved

For the pricey thing

Flashing flowerbed colors

In a pet shop window.

But I bought him,

unknowing,

And I brought him

Not knowing,

Home to prep school standards,

And for all his filled-in style,

His Joseph's uniform,

He still failed the final,

Leaving it blank.

And I ask you:

Of what worth

Is a broken handle?

Of what value is a 

Needless knob?

What can it turn,

Alter, or open?

And since it can't,

Then why should I?

Why should I turn?

Why should I alter?

Why should I,

The buyer,

The owner,

The *consumer*,

Why should I open my heart to receive

The tattered garment,

The chipped glass,

The creaking gate

When

It

Drives 

Me

MAD!

Knowing what I never know.

I will never know

The rounded vase,

The curving statue.

I will never know

The well-tuned lyre,

The swelling chorus.

I will never know

The softest look,

The welcome whisper,

I will never know,

The friendly breeze,

The floating birdsong,

I will never know

The perfect peace,

The grateful slumber.

And I will never know

No, I will never care to know

At what price I was bought

Or ask

whether I, too, 

am broken.

The day they moved my pencil was the day they took it too far. 

It had all started with a few curious stains immediately to the left of my keyboard. Dark and strangely linear in pattern, they caught my eye one Wednesday morning when I went to set down my mug after returning from a water and bathroom break. Normally, a landscape of ochre swirls located in the relative vicinity of my left elbow betrayed their designers' rather intimate attachment to coffee, but on that day my mug was filled with nothing more than good old fashioned H20. I had been catching increasingly sudden migraines at the time, and just that weekend had made the fatal decision to wean myself from America's favorite beverage before it became - like most things American - too engrossing to be healthy. Thus, you can imagine my surprise when, upon returning to my desk, I should (like a withdrawn crack addict) apparently hallucinate a mirage of my so recently divorced mistress - the same one who in times past had so persistently threatened to become my master. From what I could see as I stood behind my swiveling chair, these unknown markings were still wet. Fresh. Glistening, even. I set my mug on the unaccustomed right, and bent over to examine my desk. Blue. Shiny, beaded droplets. Opaque. It was ink.

five glittered streaks

smeared on black felt is

the skyline

an empire city

fabricated against

a backdrop of

redundant nights

a rubix cube

drifting across unlit oceans

ever and darkly lapping

"I AM."

five glittered streaks 

smeared on black felt is

the skyline

an empire city

fabricated against 

a backdrop of

redundant nights

a rubix cube

drifting across unlit oceans

eternally lapping

"I AM."

five glittered streaks 

smeared on black felt is

 

a city skyline

pasted against

the backdrop of

redundant nights

an unsolved rubix cube 

drifting across unlit oceans 

the multitude forever signifying

"I AM."

five glittered streaks 

smeared on black felt

is the skyline

of an empire city

fabricated against the backdrop

of redundant nights

a rubix cube adrift

oceans of

"I AM."

five glittered streaks 

smeared on black felt is

 

a city skyline

pasted against

the backdrop of

redundant nights

an unsolved rubix cube 

drifting across unlit oceans 

the silence forever signifying

"I AM."

five glittered streaks 

smeared on black felt

is

 

the skyline of an empire city

fabricated against

the backdrop of

redundant nights

a rubix cube 

adrift oceans of

"I AM."

five glittered streaks 

smeared on black felt

is the skyline

of an empire city

fabricated against the backdrop

of redundant nights

a rubix cube adrift

oceans of

"I AM."

five silver streaks smeared on black felt

is the skyline

of an empire city

fabricated against the backdrop

of redundant nights

a rubix cube adrift

oceans of

"I AM."

five silver streaks smeared on black felt

is the skyline

of an empire city

fabricated against the backdrop

of redundant night

a rubix cube adrift

an ocean of

"I AM."

five silver streaks smeared on black felt

is the skyline

of an empire city

fabricated against the backdrop

of redundant night

a rubix cube adrift

the ocean of

"I AM."

this just in

the beginning

and the end

studies show

a 5 by 5 cube

is really a

bottomless well 

from which one might 

ostensibly 

draw up a million years 

of the same bitter draught

which watered the roots be-

neath

the part of the park

god labeled 

"no pets allowed"

lest he reach out his hand 

and take also of the tree of life 

and eat

and live forever.

i woke to see

the trees of oak

lined in rows of

orange islets

and birds like boats

floated in bursts

seeking harbor

on arboreal beaches

Contemplation 1.1

I wish my words would sparkle bravely,
Bronze emblems blazened bold on fields of blue
or evening clouds underlit with citrus sun.

But I look up to see my phrases
hang swollen, charged with fire from fearsome skies
that glowers dark and explodes in darker thought.

Oh light that crowns the highest treetops
Sweep down to save me from this cavern speech!
and lead me blind by the hand to thy sweet source.

at first,

the smell of stone,

next,

the sound of waves,

before

thousands of rippling atoms 

coalescing into 

shiny, round, grey beads they

glisten and glimmer

each reflecting

the raised circle

upon which

I stand,

caught

in the

pure

unsourced light

which surrounds me 

and obscures them 

everything whirling.

white breeze,

soft scent,

and then

it

hits. me. hard.

i taste cool water and warm rock and dry space.

infinite empty vista that

leaves my tongue somewhat sandy.

here i would introduce a change but there is no quality of self-governance in this shimmering molecular curtain i find myself confronted with (by?) - looking toward (towards?)  - facing.

this

is

fabric.

this is 

what moves under

all the rest.

hand me 

the silver needle

dear

and thread it
only

with the 

finest

gold.

Contemplation 1

I wish my words would sparkle bravely,
Bronze emblems blazened on a field of blue
or evening clouds underlit with citrus sun.

But I look up to see my phrases
hang swollen, charged with fire from fearsome skies
that glowers dark and explodes in darker thought.

Oh light that crowns the highest treetops
Sweep down to save me from this cavern speech!
and lead me blind by the hand to thy sweet source.

Aaaaaaaaaand–
                    Ripple.
Light and lost,
as though upon the water's face
A thousand mirrored deeds recall the one
–Plunk! that fell,
Itself the product of a breeze
(Such breezes sometimes ease the leaves
to loose their grip upon the trees–
those leaves then fall to prick the seas
or ponds)
without point or plan.

Silly me.
Afloat, adrift, a washed up drip
Dropping down to stir the pot
–and ignoring the recipe!

Oh, was there ever such a thing?

A Highway Ambulance

red lights

a rocking clip

alarming drivers near

to shy away respect or fear

ignored I stare inside the windows rear

enraptured racing right beside the siren scream

within the while a wavelike mountain surges up and down

again again again the gurney shrinks beneath the blows of life

as reaching in and grasping out the drama beats itself to senseless black

and I speed past
because I had somewhere

to be.

Brantley, Byron, Bennett, Blake, Boden, Braden

Brennamae, Brynlee, Blodwyn, Brandalynn, Brooklynn

Life is:

Sad, red and green bulbs floundering in the lukewarm rain, struggling to conjure up Christmas on someone's front porch. On January 12.

The moon – is that really the moon? A dim, diffused luminescence, spayed of clarity or myth, hovering sickly on the fringes of a sympathetic cloud.

The stripped square of land which promised to be the site of a home. Promised, never delivered. Broken, crumbled clay, tufts of horse grass, terminating in a blank wall of trees. Just like life. Rocky, unvaried desolation which ends not in peace, but complete, impenetrable unknown.

Indefinable lights in the hillside opposite. Windows? Porchlights? Garages? Streetlights? A nuclear power plant lends its characteristic charm.

A stretch of silvery road – a thin sheet of liquid patina on soft, crumbly ridges, everything given a moonlight sheen. He who enters here learns the miracle of walking on water.

A teacher becomes invincible, because he is expected to be.

The apparition. Sudden, silent, stalking. A shadow? A shade. Less to be feared, more to be pondered. Is it me? Am I it?

A rich old fellow walks from his village into a nearby graveyard at sunset and sits upon a bench. Looking at the copper silhouettes of the headstones against a smoky red sky, he astutely observes: "Though he may try again and again, night after night, the devil's fires will never consume those who sleep safely hid beneath-ground." Sure enough, as he rises to leave, the sun's ember glow impotently slips below the horizon, and the grave markers immediately escape the smoldering light, like a household's evening windows all-at-once darkened into secure oblivion. But, as the satisfied fellow turns to go, something catches his attention. He starts, then gasps. A single edifice still burns with reddish lustre. Looking up, he beholds it: Perched high upon a marble mausoleum, caught in the calculating sun's last persisting rays, languishes the weather-scarred shape of a stone cross. Immediately, the man cries out, falls over dead, and the village's six church bells each toll six knells, re-echoed once apiece by the hill upon which the now-dark graveyard stands.