After "Dreams"(To be published in Oregon East 2014-15)
Your despair is quite improper!
Shakyamuni Buddha At His Death and Pass Into Nirvana However happy Heaven is golden boulevards and pearls do less for mortal cheeks than handkerchiefs. In Dreams The solemn Sunday bell shakes Its dew-drop tears with tolls, dampened By my distance from the locus Of mournful calls to congregate. I watch a watermill spill its load of gold-frilled glacial pull back to the blue, your funeral, a jovial passel of maracas, songs and jungle-colored dress, pass the camera’s eye and celebrate the proper End for him who lived to mend the fishing nets. Who can be sad? an old man asks. But in the background blurred by shallow focus plane, this daughter of the dead, bank in my knees, cheeks dappled by the spray of golden peaks.... |
A Story Common to Man(Published in Oregon East 2012-13)
What does that stone feel?
That one, there on the street, a tiny blip on a concrete radar, colored light as the stone meets stone, Bridgestone, Firestone. Maybe it wishes to be a slab of sandstone making up the Egyptian wonders of the world... Moving the Couch(Published in Oregon East 2013-14)
Turn that damn couch on its side. Maybe,
a bit more. Still, it’s just too wide! Shift the head to the floor, shove, push, shove some more. If all else fails take out the screws holding the feet and jam it hard. The cushions rip, the doorframe splits... |
For Pastor Wayne PickensToday kids climb our steeple stairs
But just find clanging bells. And we’re to blame. One time, I ate an apple, preaching on the hypostatic states to starving kids. I tossed the pippin a stream Half-eaten. I now know Jesus wasn’t on that podium. Christians, has our stain glass shattered? scattered down our aisles, across our dining halls, inside our living rooms? I just want to be done extracting shards from unbelievers’ soles. Instead, I’d tend an orchard, pluck golden gospels from the trees. Nights, I’d pass in phone book registries Searching for those kids’ home addresses. When I found one, I’d send a single Autumn Gold wrapped up in torn- out Bible passages and creeds. Call me, if you please, apologist of Lucifer, the first distributor of apples to the least of these. Spirit We impart the words not taught by human wisdom but by the Spirit.
1 Corinthians 2:13 When I first prayed The Spirit said that Jesus Christ is Lord God raised him from the dead The Bible is the Word And Evolution is absurd You’re saved, it said But Catholics aren’t, they’ll burn Unless they quit their jobs and turn To true Christians again But then I prayed a second time And Mormon Spirit warmed my loins And said that Jesus visited Nephite Americans and lives In Salt Lake pining for the Jews But then I prayed again and heard My Spirit ruffle in a tree A tree, you see! My Atman in its leaves Crawled with lady bugs Sprawled with yellow spots Which, it seems, were also me But then I prayed again And Buddha’s Spirit dharma’d in my ear It’s all a freakin’ forest fire! The trees and ladybugs ablaze Coalescing piles of dust Blown away to nothingness So then I prayed a final time and Spirit swore Iraq has nuclears The sun is square Snowflakes are similar Santa Claus exists And Christmas lights are colored sprites People force to fly in chains For holiday delight - It said Stab mother with a spoon And microwave my car Into a mass of metal sparks and blackened goo I did And now I’m in this room confused With padded walls and doors Sitting in a centered chair Praying again I fear But just my lonely sentences Dampened by the cushioned squares |