The world must speak of God
If He was here at all.
And not in subtle tones,
But bold strokes of color,
Light and shadow, shimmers,
Glowing ochre glory.
The very fact of doubt,
That tugging ill-at-ease,
Is a gift to the man
So glorious himself
He could for a moment
Garble the plain message.
The hope of riches must
Warp the one who squanders
Expectation for it.
They do more harm to him
Who catches them than to
The man they disappoint.
The lowly devour
The color and the shape
So lavished on this place.
Why bite the hand that feeds?
When you live in the dark,
The light is hard to miss.
God, in violent action,
Seeks after His poor ones.
Only they can stand Him,
Without brace of culture.
The wave is grace to sand
Uncastled in its pride.
When He does show His face,
Ev’ry hill is brought down,
Ev’ry valley filled in,
The crooked straightened out,
Before the dissolving
Presence of the artist.
God will glory, no doubt, in the message.
It must disappoint, devour all who miss it.
The blindest action of pride will someday face the artist.
Image: Sunset, Roan Mountain TN/NC, August 2004.
East of Eden
When your father has dubious means,
And you’re not too sure of your own genes,
Your mom is a witch,
And you’re a snitch,
You can’t buy anyone’s love with beans.
Pride and Prejudice
Hearing the truth quite often hurts one,
But ignorance is even less fun.
Darcy and Bennett
Might take a minute
To figure out just who they should shun.
The Brothers Karamazov
Fyodor Pavlovich was some kind of a jerk.
His three (or four?) sons each a unique piece of work.
Grushenka lived loud.
Katya was proud.
Priests rot, but in the loud dark, both death and hope lurk.
The Power and the Glory
Everyone’s sin is a nonstarter.
Church on the lam; wine on barter.
You shouldn’t get drunk
When you’re the lone monk,
For conscience will make you a martyr.
Said Hugo, “No one can write bluer,
But ev’ry injustice I’ll skewer.
Valjean’s the hero;
All others zero.
Wait! I forgot about the sewer.”
Image credit: engraving for 1886 edition of Les Misérables. Public Domain.
To the attempter of ministry. A song of descents.
1 O Lord, exalter of the humble,
Crush all my weary pride.
2 In You alone do the lowly take refuge.
3 Not so the arrogant, who trust in man's power,
In the riches and reputation they see as theirs.
4 In a moment, you will show them their poverty.
You will teach them to become weak.
5 For to depend upon You is to be wealthy,
And to be carried on your back is strength.
6 Blessed is the man who forsakes his position;
The woman who rebukes a haughty heart.
7 In the shadow of Your presence alone do they find light.
8 Give thanks, O my soul, and heed the grace of the Most High.
He sets free the prisoner of expectations
And establishes the one who cannot stand.
Image: Madrones clinging to life in a desert place. Guadalupe Mountains National Park, Tex. February 2018.
Houseplants sit a bit aslant on a windowsill.
Dieffenbachia, Schefflera resting, still,
A vine, drooping in line with the next crusty shrub.
Wanting water, Settling for soil, a dry brown nub.
I bought them for a dollar. I brought them to work,
Meant not to neglect them, but they know I’m a jerk.
A little TLC could go quite a long way,
“A cup of water today wouldn’t hurt,” they say.
Even so, life is tenacious, almost gracious,
Enduring, audacious. Literally vivacious.
My mistakes can’t kill their dream, though their leaves may scream,
A simple gleam of water as their one daydream.
Just a hint of compassion, giving their ration,
Brings ashen foliage back to the height of fashion.
In Photosynthetic glory, I see allegory,
But casting myself as the star of this story.
“Look what I grew!” I think as they come into view,
Withered stems askew, pain ignored by this breakthrough.
They laugh, “If only you knew; if only you knew.”
Photo: Santa Fe Botanical Garden, February 2018.