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.