Thursday, August 07, 2008

Without further ado, some poems.

Living and Dying

Dying for something
isn't difficult;
you do it once,
The bomb explodes,
the bullet bursts your heart,
You shield a child's body
with your own.

It's living for something
that's hard--
Slogging through,
unglamorous, mundane,
when that passion
which once bore you up
becomes a burden,
or at the very least
a weight
(not quite a millstone)
round your neck.
One may choose once,
impetuously, to die
and not look back because
there is no time.
A life is nothing but time,
which is why
the living is so hard;
so many salt
pillars mark the path
to martyrdom of spirit
(rather than flesh and blood);
which, for its dailiness,
is just as good.


Confession and contrition

Bless me, Mother, for I have sinned;
Surely somewhere in the folds
of blue and white
you have some absolution tucked away
for just such a moment as this,
when I, hungry-eyed and needy
as a child
Approach you on raw hands and bleeding knees?
I have made an art of penance;
take my brush away.
I have stretched myself like canvas
on a frame; please
slip me loose and hold me to your heart
crumpled and no longer able to
assume the forms of what's called
mortal sin,
that wily separateness,
that lonely shame.

Whisper my name
and call me yours--so long
I've wanted someone to belong to,
and resolved, once I was taken in,
To cling with all my strength
and never go.


You are not alone

You are not alone.
That is the message
every human ear
strains to hear
Through the cacophony
of living,
the thick silence
of solitude.
To belong--if not here,
then somewhere
at least;
That is the need,
raw and incandescent,
that knocks the arrow to the string
and strums the wanderer


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