More Asking Than Receiving

I recently ran
across this article
on this theological
journal.

It was
about this man
who had a wife,
had three kids,
had a parsonage,
had a church.

But he did more asking
than he had
receiving,
and they say this is
the lot
of every husband.

Is it any wonder
that the man after
God's own heart
fell
from that roof, and his son
from many rooves;
while the man
in the article,
a pastor,
beloved,
now sells cars.

Because he did more asking
than he had
receiving,
and they say this is
the lot
of every husband.

Who Knows

Why you stare
Me at
Me
Stare at me
I stare
See there
Bones

Groans
On the shore
I pick on
My bones

Lickity
And tomorrow
Who knows

Who knows
Who knows
Who knows!

The Movie Worth My Time

I say a movie is
Worth any only if,
Amidst its blazing and dance
With the demigods of culture,
It pierces through
The crud
Of man's depravity,
Breaking through the dead night
Onto light and the day of lust done.

And so the child plays on,
Divinity on hand.

Toward You

To hope in no other.

To see beauty in no sunrise
When my eyes see not You.

To hope for death
As it ends all striving,
And I am in You, and You in me
Completely.

When now all I see
Is me, far and torn,
Your face do I seek,
Your voice I plead--speak life to these bones.

And so I shall walk, though ungainly,
Toward You. By the hand
You shall take me
Toward You.

No Reason Apart

The noise of this age
Is in its insistence
That there is more to be had,
And a reason to be glad,
Other than and apart from
The slaying...

...in every breath.
...in every thought, low and lofty.
...in every thorn plunged, meat marred.
...in every plea, desperate for redemption

From them all.

Reasons.

When all that remains
When these dark days
End
Is the soul

From You
For You
To You.

To be You.

My Shadow Remains

What have I lost that I did not
Lose upon entering this world?

Are not the seasons marked, indelible,
Never to be defaced?

So why do I grieve?

For these dreams that coiled
Around me, now fragments
Of broken bone.

For the light that now
Has its place where the wind
Spirits away its spoils. And here
In this old man of a cabin

Only my shadow remains.

My shadow remains.

Bird Preach

The maya birds preach.

Outside, in the icy envelope of gray,
They preach.

Hits and Misses

Let loose to the wind your many attempts
At divinity, and watch your skin crack,
Your knees fold, your calcifications
Double. You thief. You steal His air,
His grass, His plums--and with them,
His throne. The dust beckons.
The slither of worms call.
You go laughing and He laughs with you,
As His peace is served, your light is snuffed.
It would have been different
Had you heard divinity in the wind.

A Moment in My Pocket

The child and his bright eyes
Beaming

The curling of his tongue
As wrinkles form
On his face
Gleaming

As he smiles at the sight
Of his smiling father

No thought of taxes,
Price hikes
Or the other got ahead

None of that now

Today it's just him
And his smiling father

The Lesson

Oh, yes, it is as if
The final drop of the storm
Has landed; and now eyes,
Dimmed by clouds gray and forlorn,
Can see the working man's sun,
Dimmed, gray and forlorn
No more.

It is so, for seasons teach
That the valleys and its specters
Must give birth
To the hills and its angels.

It is so. It was then;
So shall it be today;
And again in the carefree morrow.

The Stickman

The stickman
He moves
With steps ailing.

He looks
Up to
The yellow sky
As the brown earth
His tears kiss.

He looks
Down on
His shriveled hands,
These hands
Have small mouths
To feed and clothe
And love.

But he wishes
To pierce
The yellow sky
Across the black expanse
For home to reach.

Yet not now.
Not soon.
There are small mouths
To feed and clothe
And love.

The Philippians 4:6 Cat

A black and white cat rests splayed atop the dusty pavement,
The occasional breeze ruffling his otherwise already disheveled fur.
His mind is on the shaking in the bushes that eavesdropping has brought to his senses:
It may be dinner beckoning or just the naughty wind.
But now he's too contented to move a muscle and too busy being a cat
To fret over a lost rat. So he returns to sleeping,
Fretting over nothing, too busy being a cat.

The Daily Joke

Never a day sighs
Its last breath
Into nothing
When I'm not driven
Onto hard ground,
To wet the floor
Cold with weeping
For fresh vision
Of a heart rancid.
Many a time
Have I wished
A departure
From the taunts of the sun
And moon; they shake
Their heads at me
For each sees the same,
The sun and moon.
They scream,
"Shape up, boy!",
And go their way
Shaking their heads,
"See you tomorrow".

Black and White

Madness
Is just a simple hello
Away
When met by solutions
Pandered by hoods and whores
In scarlet and black,
As hands clasp
In agreement.

Sanity, too,
A simple hello
Away
When wet
With confusion
And drenched in pus and sores,
You know
He's got your back,
A firm grasp of atonement.

Quiet Twinkling Stars

The quiet twinkling stars
That litter
The purple midnight,
They each have their songs.

Faces and forms,
Their peculiar graces,
Bound up in a sense
Spiritual in sad music.

The heart longing
For soft, sweet light
Finds satisfaction
In sad star songs,

When the purple midnight speaks
Of quiet fire on blank faces
And lonely forms
Spiritual in sad music.

True Winners of the Race

Wrists and ankles burn and itch
From these shackles hanging
Like red rusty vines
From burned-out trees:
Rats in suits racing
For ethereal cheese,
Clawing,
Snarling,
Leaving teeth
Lodged
On grimy hide.
Some stumble, crushed
Never to bare
Whiskered smiles.

While the wise
On lush prairies
Roam the plains,
With them laughing
Their little ones.

Ash Heap Hearts

The night has ebbed
Into its darkest.
Now flows
In bitter sweet

Down my gut,
Dismal brew
Churns words
For sleep.

Nothing new,
Nothing now
To keep.
Just words

Freed. They fly
And in flames
Settle down
On ash heap hearts.

Wisdom

Toil and a pumping
Heart.

Blood drifting
In a pool.

Tattered hair
On an angel's face.

Beaming like the sun,
My child.

Don't let go
Of my trembling hand.

You are love.

And I am dead without you.

Life and Times

Travel times--those minutes, even hours,
On your ass, seeking a destination.

Sometimes the stroke of a pen
Seats you beside someone that makes
The hands or the sands move or fall
Unnoticed. At such times travel times
Are worth the furrowed brows and
Awkward knees.

But then there are better times
When your head allows for a sweet
Indulgence: the reading of a book
And the gleaning from it of spices
And fragrances, seasoning and spilling
Over to your need. At such times travel times
Are worth the furrowed brows, awkward knees, and
Sore ass.

But a lifetime--those years, even decades,
On your ass, seeking a destination,
Knowing not where where is--
Is furrowed brows, awkward knees, and
A sore ass forever.

Limp and Claimed by the Light

My walk laden with a limp.

Yet One has tread the same
Road, stumbling not a minute
Through pains magnified beyond
What any earth-bound mind can
Comprehend, and claimed
The prize...

...for those acclaimed
By Him from before
The tree dimmed the light.

Limp-laden and triumphant:
Me in Christ.

At Ease

The days easier.

The disease has rolled
Off like the leaves and nuts
Slide off parked cars
When the rain sways.

Washed away in a flood of

Grace.

One Rainy Night

Soft taps
On the tattered roof
Boom into full
Drum corps rolls
As the
Out-of-season
Monsoon
Opens up
A beleaguered heart
To her humans,
Ever-welcoming shoulders.

Her sighs,
The cold flurries;
Her tears,
The piercing rain.

Saying goodbye,
Her woes
Leave us
New songs.

My Daughter's Daisy

A yellow daisy
Greets my revival
Onto a drab
Saturday morning.
Assaulted
By vivid light
Bouncing off eight
Grooved petals
And a fluffy darker core.

It would be
Just any flower
Queued for
The thoughtless
Wither
If not for
The fact, a fact
That formed worlds
And shed blood
Divine,

That it was plucked
In the throes
Of light
And love
By my smiling child.

Warden

every moment chained

and

coiled to its siblings

wherein I breathe

in

the Spirit's hovering

is all of grace

for

I am alive

and drunk

and all is well

for God is both

up

and here

in the quagmire

with me

Alive on Metaphysics

I would rather
Be the greased-up rocker
Floating like a rag
On the streets of the metro
Grinning for nothing
But maintaining
A mind to dwell on
Metaphysics

Than any respectable fellow
About to pop
From affluence but
Missing something
The one thing
That looks living in the eye
And enlists the bloke
In the affairs of the King
Making living
Into something
None other than
Living

Box

The rigid play
Of lines
On a box
No deviancies
But a consistency
An integrity
That I burn for
A daily clamor
That keeps my eyes
Opening upon
Every lifting of
The curtain
On the light parade
Which is reason
Not enough
But the only one

To be boxed in
By schemes
That slay
The old hunkered
Down habits
By ones that make for
Immortality

Living Water

Ah, yes, the view is crystal
From down here where the bugs
Ramble.

Up the canyon the clouds
Swirl and the blue
Expanse course
Through my throat--parched
--like thawed ice.

Parody

Life is a pardody of life

When mouths are poison arrow frogs

When the job pays but the candle burns

When your woman plays the frog too, croaky

When lately silence is the best jazz in weeks

But life indeed must be laughed at for

What is funnier than me thinking of

Me as

Somebody

My Kitty

Have you ever walked the streets
And stopped for a while to wade
In a well-timed gush of cool wind
When suddenly, at your feet, a kitty
Rubbing her face against your ankles
Catches you wide-eyed and warmed?

How fearless, you think to yourself.
How small but with a heart big enough
To trust this towering alien.
How against all instinct of flight
She came not for just anyone--but you.

She really is a pretty one, you muse,
Stooping to stroke her face, her back,
Her belly, and her sides. You decide
To cup her gently in your robust hands
And bring her home, knowing
As cats often do, that she might
One day stand aloof, away
From the heart and hands
That penned these words.

Creating You

This poem is for nothing more than
Words let loose like ants in ordered panic
After the boot has heaved their heavenly earth
From off its Babel form.

No necessary theme.
Bereft of crafty schemes.
Just words.

I can think of dripping honey
And a three-day slumber.
Ah, beautiful words.
Anything to fuel creation.

It's all about creation.
Procreate and produce.
Not just any trifle fart, but the real.
The you. Create the you.
In your words speak worlds
Into being.

Like dripping honey and a three-day slumber.

Bukowski

As I watch Bukowski be himself,
Seeing how genius fluorished
In a pot of flaming earth, scorched
By the man who would normally be called father
But in this case gnawing pestilence;
How in his escape from the whipping and
From the marring of human clay, disfigurement,
Into a world where despair was lifeblood
And the glimmer of gold in the bottle was
Communion with the gods;
Amidst the parade of flesh, too late in coming
Yet too soon to fade, from where many moons
Shone, both in the whisky sky and rooms
Dank and ailing--I recognize
Creation, art, intellect, and the bruised child
Held like a delicate bud in Hands
That meant for words from wounds--upward,
Glorious and etched in forever--to fly.
And I am better off for it.

The Pumpin' Stinger

The lords of the world demand blood
To the exclusion of gardens green
And the occasional bee sting.

But do paint me a picture of this magnetic lush
To hang on my wall and keep me inside
The halls of sanity for a less bumpy ride.

Horse Smell

I wish you
A plane crash
Just when you're feeling
All white and one

A nasty plunge
Into
A blackened
Steel-thorned forest
Alone

I wish you
Stripped
Of your vestments of pomp

Yeah

See those imps
Coming they come
To claw
Their way through
To pretty hypocritical you

Scream soaking wet
Run to escape
The laughter of a million peeks
Bar the doors
Burn out the lights
Still inside
Pungent whore smell reeks

All Over the Place

Heavy and dark
I sleep and try
This toilsome cloak
From my soul to pry

Yet when slumber cracks
Escape denied
Still I lack
N'integrated mind

A branch loose
From the Vine I am
So must I again
Be entwined

Coffeelation

I've discovered the truth
That for coffee to kick,
It must be downed,
Hot and quick,
In one fell swoop.

I Am Pleased

I am cross-legged behind a computer.
Looking to my left, I spot asleep
My wife, crouched like a cave over
David, a sharpened arrow fashioned
In the swirling mass of glory that
Is the mind of God.

The bright pools that are Sophia's eyes,
Her wavy hair blacker than any black
I've seen on hair and the way
She is her name, these please me.

I breathe in the air of a gift opened.
That waft of love that is the upward
Curve in the lips of Him who makes men
Through the love of them--and I am pleased.

The Fruit of Peace

These bones are critters that scurry through a freshly-mopped floor.
Eyes that dream of a cool freshly-made bed are lead...sinking
To the bottom of free days.

A few hours of darkness and a crack of light
From an old wooden door, strange wind
From a screened window covering skin,
And the fruit of peace is plucked and had.

Green Leaves

green leaves fallen
on asphalt strewn about,
random--silent--who
decides which

ones ride the wind
or burn in the pile?

off to chlorophyll heaven
or hellish carbon ash
come argue freedom
caterpillar men

Fire Child

Would you skim through your breaths
Like a pebble flung across a placid stream?

Forgetting the eyes thirsty for just
A glimpse of fire in the sky--of fire
That walks among corn stalks leaving
Chaff in its wake.

She looks up singing, looking for the blaze,
The same inferno that rages within her--perhaps,
She is not alone.

Looking down on her rain-soaked feet, she wonders
How the sun loved the moon.

Incarceration

The peace that moves with the swaying of the mango leaves
On the provincial plains of our ancestors
Is the same peace that curdles within the man
Inside a prison cell.

Solitary.

Beating.

Listening.

To rivers screaming the past
And whispering the enlightened hope
Of mango leaves swaying
On the provincial plains of his ancestors.

The Colors of a Shadow

My best bud is sometimes dark, a pristine black,
when the sun winks.
He contorts, shifts shape,
sometime dwarfed, sometime humongous,
sometime my size. He follows me around
when the sun winks.

I see him in vivid color when
I stand behind glass.
I realize we've been meeting like this
for so long now, he's never late.
Whether I'm brutish or the softest child,
he sticks, reminding me
of my many colors.

For so long I was not much
of a buddy to him. He was
often dismissed while I went
wielding swords against familiar
dragons, but somehow
we fought as one.

The days have aged and
my friend remains,
steadfast in our commune, but now
I am to him as he was
to me--he would've taken dragon
teeth in my stead. It took
an angel behind the glass to make
me see when she spoke,
I love the rainbow after the rain.

The Love Pig

It sees the barbs
it must squeeze
through, the full
breadth of its pink
body: the love pig.
All the way over
the other side,
it comes out dripping
of rose petals;
the air foggy
with the steam
of love cried,
sang, screamed--lived and died.

Blue Mountain

Beneath a mountain, immense as it is grayish-blue,
I stare up through eyes worn, coal eyes.
I imagine its cone shape if perhaps I,
coming from breaths called clouds, was an eagle
able to see the full bloom of this my blue mountain.

To this I aspire, the shedding of these crude
eyes, these vessels of myopia through which
the masses trade beauty for madness
--convulsing, exhaling, screaming for dung--and
seeing enough of eternity in trees and boulders,
roses and leaves of grass, I pluck these eyes
from off their Platonic caves and beckon the eagle:
enable me to see the full bloom of this my blue mountain.

The King and Queen of the Week

The week rolls into this, the king of days.

The laborer rules on a Saturday, unmanacled monarch;
the queen by his side ever the charmer.

His word is law after the sweetest of slumbers
of the Friday kind; subjects with tails
hooked to walls.

The royal days deposed, the royal days
enthroned.

When the sun is a Face, it all shall cease.

The Golden Goose

There was a man who found a golden goose
Whose down was no, not yellow, but gold, so
Gold it shone, and she was the man's and his
Alone, or so he thought. But she was loose,
A golden goose, so alone, so without peer,
So loved by the man, but loose. She loved
The hands that eased through her dress. Her
Wings she spread for men holding the staff;
Her man was a cobbler, but he loved her. Once,
The man saw: she, in high spirits, laughing,
Merry in the company of the mayor, his hands
Beneath. The hammer quivered, his eyes weak
Before the flood that swept across cheeks
On fire. On the floor he slumped, emancipation?
Never, for he loved her. Never, will he find
Another. The man and his loose golden goose.

Ravens

Ravens, in a flash they are overhead amidst wing claps.
They are night given flight and the liberty to muffle
The moon's wooing of once-contented eyes.

Perched on a shoulder, the nightbird is a timemachine
With red wine eyes entwined with mine, portals
To worlds that precede the fragments on the marble floor.

Ravens, they sadden the soul with what once gladdened it;
But in the presence of silver doves they fly.

A Scetic Day

Drawing near

                             is me

                 in a room

                                                                    solitary.

The hunger

        is a

                                   whisper

        after the quake

                                                           that came on

                                                                                                    the heels of the wind.

Under a Fern-Type Plant

The sun's photon fingers reach
Through spear leaves striping
Me beneath into alternate
Rows of yellow.

Any more feet further and
The heat makes red, so
Here I stay breathed upon
By my fern-type friend.

To You

To You, emblazoned in the gaze of an impossible sun,
Mirrors fragile in every blade of grass,
Aloft in the flight of a fragrant east wind
That blows through mountains of white and blue.
It's true, in the billows of the foamy sea,
Puppet in obedient dance below moon strings,
In the eyes of the swift eagle, gold and taloned,
Or the elusive hare darting to its holed haven.
And even, when man is born with a heart far
From the desire of sweet river water poured
For them the chosen parched, still to You, it's true,
Is the love softer than a limp rose bowed.

Her Mother Eve

How far she has gone from Eve, and yet
The curdling of her blood is ripe with
The cider of adulterous fruit and windfall
Testimonies. She denies her lineage with
Embroidered pageantry and fluff; underneath,
A dark dank crevice littered with the bones
Of the sons of a clown-faced Adam.
She will forever reach for snakes
Clutching silver spiked apples.