Chart each unsearchable outpost,
Plumb unfathomable depths of soul
Infinite pixels of mind
On some abyssal plain, desire’s colors glow dark and deep.
No beam penetrates
No eye perceives
No breath permits
Chasms yawn twixt treadmill
and horizon, confined to cage. I
Scan seashore, touch and marvel,
Points, light and hues.
Eternity rests under my fingers.
Bent underneath humanity,
huddled close behind darkened eyes…
palms open, empty.
‘Kyrie! …mercy for sinners.
Beg wholeness, wellness, while
Men take up stones, hurl words
One finger writes conviction into sand,
We go, sin no more.
If Kyrie! … dead men taunt ‘if’
Demand things withheld.
Reject the offering,
Press on insistent answers,
Denying the least of these…
Kyrie! … mend the broken
Hands and voices, lift them as a banner.
Over shame. Against defeat.
Shout all open hearts.
Quickly, before sight dims.
See here, little children, he bids us:
Advance your step, bend ever towards,
lips caress, arms embrace
Bind my steps to you and hold me center
We become tempo and form.
Delight formed soul from desire
My eyes were yours, and your hands mine.
Your voice my heart, and my whispers your soul
Vision wove words into webs, tangling gifts with graces.
leprous and unclean
do not touch, taste, handle
deceitful words, lacking power
spit and dirt in blind eyes
reaching for heaven, or
the hem of a garment
yet unwashed in dirty water
priestly proclamations, only
do not touch, taste, handle
force of words, stealing life
We embrace him,
no, he touches us
a word delivered,
spoken and fulfilled,
‘It is good’ or
“It is finished’
we touch, kiss,
a filament of strength
dancing for joy.
I die naked sheltered only by tombs, wielding stones to score my flesh.
I vainly engrave an everlasting memorial, a bloody epitaph to my demise.
I listen, battle-worn, to the multitude who speaks my name.
This multitude desolates, crowded in emptiness and waste, their lies bind the mind.
Their fear heaps chains upon my fetters with shackles which only burst into terror.
We wage unending war, the only spoils our scars, brokenness and fear.
Invading our beachhead, the legion falls upon their faces begging, ‘damn us not’.
They would stay where stupid pigs harmlessly feed on the grassy hillside.
At your word they mount on grisly chariots, riding one last conquest into the sea.
Battle silent, you set me to rest by the fire, among friends, one chosen and beloved.
Bidding to stay, I hunger to follow and feast at your table full and warm.
At your word, graciously you give me to a multitude still longing for pigs.
I wear eternal garments, sheltered under rock, magnificent righteousness covering my flesh.
I gloriously display an everlasting memorial, a human epitaph to your conquest.
I speak joyful emptiness to the multitude bearing your name.
Painting by George Ficklin
worried for whom I should be
content with whom I became
Check out this beautiful little gem here: Solace.
I breathe into you.
Rest as I bandage weal and wound
bend and break.
A tiny bruised blade of grass.
I brace on pillars of stone,
bind against stanchions of truth,
guard with promise of amends.
Quietly I whisper peace,
arouse what smolders and seethes,
reignite to consume,
dare live yet longer,
Let go your two-fisted man-handle; the grasping.
Waken complacent stumps; set aside your famine.
Take straight view of what remains ahead:
When things work for one; they work for none.
Please take hold of my hand. Once young,
and now being old, I will tell you stories.
Choice tales make simple children wise;
and shape better princes from mere men.
We’ll gather threads, and twine them
Walk the road; lean in, take hold together.
Frequent falling, fear, and callous cold,
on shared path, fade forgotten behind us.
Taste one sweet handful of quietness;
Its richness dangles just within our reach
Rouse stumbling feet; waken fumbling fingers;
Let go all blustering, noisy, empty wind.