Jesus Through A Poet’s Lens

By

Peter Carrington Venable, MEd

Circle of Angels (Celestial Rose or White Rose)

by Gustav Doré, Paradiso: XXXI

Copyright Notices

The image copied from Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, with permission from Dr. Gregory B. Newby, Chief Executive and Director, Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/8798/8798-h/8798-h.htm#33

Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®, under Summary of Gratis Use Guidelines, via HarperCollins Christian Publishing, from https://www.biblegateway.com/.

Quotations under the poems “Listening” and “Undistracted Prayer” are from The Praktikos & Chapters on Prayer, Evagrius Ponticus, translated by John Eudes Bamberger, OCSU. Cistercian Publications: Kalamazoo, Mich, 1981, p. 60. Copyright 1972 by Cistercian Publications, Inc. © 2008 by Order of Saint Benedict, Collegeville, Minnesota. Used with permission.

Dedication

Numerous people have acted as spiritual transformers in my life. They are incarnations, avatars, images of God and archetypes of what it means to be human. Guidance counselors and therapists guided me on my journey those early adult years.

I thank those lives who have enhanced my own: my parents, Uncle Joe, and Christine, my wife, who is as much a gift today as when God matched us in 1979 (when we “happened” to attend a church supper. “Coincidences are God’s way of keeping Himself anonymous,” a Twelve-Step quote, but I prefer God-incidences.)

Cheers to the many clients who gave their stories to me, and allowed me to pass on the spirit of their recovery to others during my decades working as a case manager, Licensed Clinical Addiction Specialist, and Licensed Professional Counselor. Maple Springs United Methodist Church is my final church home. Appreciations are offered to many inspiring co-workers and church clergypersons.

Being a member of Winston-Salem Writers and a poetry critique group has proved invaluable. When they critique my latest masterpiece, my euphoria and ego-inflation are quickly popped. Or pierced. I’m reminded poems are to be icons, not idols.

Numerous authors and their books have shaped my beliefs, knowledge, and worldview. I read many books by early Christian Fathers on monasticism and asceticism, e. g. Merton’s Contemplative Prayer and Ponticus’s The Praktikos & Chapters on Prayer, which imprinted my soul. Some contemporary Christian books (most recently Brooks Harrington’s convicting No Mercy, No Justice, and David Crump’s Knocking on Heavens Door) brought me wonder and conviction. Such writings jarred my complacency and enabled me to apprehend the deceptiveness of my sins and vices, and glimpse true humility. The Bible? Who can stand in the same Bible twice? Daily it animates and fortifies me. Hebrews 4:12 should be posted on my wall but is tattooed on my soul.

I remain indebted to Lucia Robinson and Kathy Goodkin, who edited this volume, and the Kindle Editing team.

I give eternal thanks to our Holy Father, Holy Son, and Holy Spirit and how they inspired the authors of the Old Testament and New Testament—and this writer.

Epigraph

“A poem is never finished only abandoned.” Paul Valéry.

Summa Stipula

“I can write no more. I have seen things that make my writings like straw.”

—St. Thomas Aquinas, quoted in 1273, who authored twenty volumes and Summa Theologica, 3,020 pages, unfinished.

Poems are words made of straw,

feed to chew over and over, cud for the soul

while dreams of alfalfa and clover fields

bloom and swell in green seas

always beyond.

Always beyond

our straw.

Contents

Section One – B. C. Until 2-18-78

Black And White

August 1969

Close Encounter Of The Worst Kind

Split Night

Thumbs Down

2-18-78

Section Two - Jesus Life

In The Beginning

Dark Forces

In His Own Image

Mustérion

Pale Blue Dot

Christes Masse

Yeshua

Christ Has No Crown

First Light

Seventy AD Until . . .

When The Hour Came

When The Wood Was Green

Immediately One Of Them Ran

Passover

The Crown On The Skull

Science Fiction

Awakening

Monday 33 AD

Flesh Of My Flesh

Testimony

Section Three – Neighbors

Neighbors

Metamorphosis

Sacred Heart

After The Club

Telling Stories

Darkness Within Darkness

Cool Spring Street

Yoke Fellows

Disperse The Gloomy Clouds of Night

The Road Divides

Via Crucis

Crab Nebula

Vestigia Dei

I Wonder As They Wander

At The Splash Pad

Section Four – Reflections

Mountain Echo

Listening

Undistracted Prayer

You Were My God

The Atlantic To The Empyrean

Ninth Hour

Good Friday Remembrance

Seven Miles From Home

In Dark Times

Asleep

Last Sunrise

Doorway

Smuggler

A/C Apocalypse

He Took A Knee

Bloodborne Cup

Light Is His Shadow

Postmodernism Postscript

Biblical References

Foreword

The transformative power of scripture lies partially in its tendency to reveal new truths on each reading, even after many years. Such unfolding of meaning is the mark of a durable text, and one reason poets and artists return to scripture for material. In the tradition of the Metaphysical poets, Venable’s remarkable Jesus Through a Poet’s Lens serves as a bridge between the quotidian and the transcendent, the scientific and the faith-driven, the profane and the sacred.

In surprising and moving images, and imbued throughout with sonic resonance, Venable reveals new experiences through the life of Jesus Christ. The first section of the book explicates Jesus’ life in vivid, moving language. Subsequent sections move to grapple with faith in the manner of a modern Gerard Manley Hopkins, weaving images from scripture as the poet’s eye looks for the sacred in even the darkest places. In the poem “After the Club,” a grieving mother whose child has been shot weeps in a support group:

The minute hand deepens her wound / as she treads on her Möbius strip. / Paper cuts crisscross her wrists. // What words, what touch / can heal the flow of blood and water / from her pierced soul?

This question skillfully uses the image of the spear in Jesus’ side to suture a modern-day narrative to scripture, asking the reader to consider suffering and salvation in the context of Jesus, and to suggest that no human intervention can heal the grief she feels. In Jesus Through a Poet’s Lens, we see how the familiar narrative can reveal new truths, which is one of the greatest tasks of poetry.

Kathy Goodkin is a poet, teacher, musician, editor, & friend to all (most) creatures. She works for feminist publisher Gazing Grain Press, provides poetry manuscript consultation for The North Carolina Writers’ Network, & is the author of Crybaby Bridge (Moon City Press, forthcoming) and Sleep Paralysis (dancing girl press, 2017).

Endorsements

“You've got something here: of course, I do not know what it is, as the unknown comes through the words to make your God a personal One, yet still as a stone among a lilac full of cardinals. I do love it, as it evokes my childhood (and the child in me) sitting in short pants my mother made for me, the sermons long and indwelling in the music, as the message was—is—always Grace unhinged and wobbling in its surrogate Imagination—at Rehobeth Primitive Baptist Church, Elevation Township, North Carolina. Thank you for letting me read this: you believe in it and I do too.” Shelby Stephenson, former North Carolina Poet Laureate. https://www.facebook.com/PoetNC/

“P.C. Venable’s work, whether cosmic or close to heart, is a vessel of compassion. While sharing the pain he sees (and seeks to heal) in others, he offers, too, poems of solace and balm.” Sofia M. Starnes is the Poetry Editor for The Anglican Theological Review. atr@anglicantheologicalreview.org

Preface

The intention of this poetical journey is to gaze at and magnify Jesus through a fresh lens, while retaining the truth and flow of Scripture. While some poetical license and imagination have been offered, nothing, I trust, is incongruent with scriptural meaning and application, much less heresy or blasphemy. An old illustration serves as a caveat: When we plumb the depths of the hermeneutic well seeking Jesus’ face, we often confuse his face with our own reflection.

What is true in poetry is equally true about God. Attributed to Xenophanes: “. . . the gods of the Ethiopians were inevitably black with flat noses while those of the Thracians were blond with blue eyes.” We make God in our own image. From our projection booths, we project shadowy images on the universal screen “God” as we superimpose luminous features on him, and our human temptation is to project our shadows on “them.” The invitation herein is to refresh the truth “He is the image of the invisible God” (Col 1:15) and we as imagers of him.

For the reader, each poem can inspire the biblical sense of Spirit: wind, creative power, and breath. Perhaps each poem can breathe fresh breath and accomplish what a poem should: pause, surprise, reflection and most optimistically, a re-reading. In one account in Genesis 2:7, “Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life (Heb. neshamah), and the man became a living being.” In this sense, I wish these poems breathe life into the reader, the neshamah expiring from each poem and animating hearts and minds. Such is inspiration.

Acknowledgments

These have been published previously, and rights reverted to this author:

Mustérion, The Christian Century

Cristes Masse, Calvary Cross

Yeshua, Windhover: A Journal of Christian Literature, A Gathering of Poets

When the Hour Came, Ancient Paths Online

Science Fiction, The Anglican Theological Review

Awakening, Halo Magazine

Testimony, Inklings Publishing

Cool Spring Street, Ancient Paths

Yokefellows, Time of Singing

Via Crucis, The Shine Journal

I Wonder As They Wander, The Whirlwind Review

Mountain Echo, Chrysalis

Undistracted Prayer, The Merton Seasonal, American Vedantist

Seven Miles from Home, Spirit Fire Review

Postmodernism Postscript, Prairie Messenger

Introduction

Jesus often spoke poetically in his native language, Aramaic. His teachings were rich in metaphors, similes, paradoxes, parables, hyperbole, idiom, proverbs, irony, puns, and the like. At times he used meter and rhythm as he spoke. Some examples follow.

- Metaphor: “While I am in the world, I am the Light of the world” (John 9:5.)

- Hyperbole: “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven” (Luke 18:25.)

- Simile: “Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it” (Mark 10:15.)

- Paradox: “For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted” (Matthew 23:12.)

- Symbolism: “Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword” (Matthew 10:34-36.)

- Irony: “See, Lord, here are two swords.” “That's enough!” he replied (Luke 22:38.)

- Personification: “But if I drive out demons by the finger of God, then the kingdom of God has come upon you” (Luke 11:20.)

- Allusion: Jesus replied, “The one who has dipped his hand into the bowl with me will betray me” (Matt. 26:23) from “Even my close friend, someone I trusted, one who shared my bread, has turned against me” (Ps. 41:9.)

- Allegory: The Parable of the Sower found in Matthew 13:1-23, Mark 4:1-20, and Luke 8:4-15. Verse 20, Jesus explains: “The seed falling on rocky ground refers to someone who hears the word and at once receives it with joy.”

It bears mentioning Jesus spoke some forty-six parables as listed in the gospels. A parable is (usually) a simple fictitious illustration portraying a moral and spiritual lesson. While they are mainly prose, a few have poetical elements. Clearly, Jesus was a master storyteller. Who has not heard of the Parable of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10:25-37?

These poems were stimulated by this master verbal poet, who apart from writing in soil, evidently never wrote a line! However, Jesus’ poetical words are memorable and mesmerize-able—easily accessible to recall. Little wonder why his disciples and others were able to recall and translate his sayings into written form within one to several decades later.

I began scrawling poetry in high school, and due to a college survey course in English Literature, many poets fueled my passion. Like all novice poets, I began unconsciously emulating them in those early endeavors. Predictably, such notable poets indelibly inscribed me like T. S. Eliot, William Cowper, Gerard Manley Hopkins, William Blake, and William Butler Yeats (is there a more disturbing poem than “The Second Coming?”) and which still shakes my soul. Also, such excellent songwriters in the sixties and seventies added to my early angst verse, such as Lennon-McCartney, John Phillips, and Paul Simon. Years later, reading a volume of Emily Dickinson’s collected poems served to astonish and humble as I began each new poem. (Undoubtedly, decades of singing hymns and anthems in choirs shaped my love for formal verse.)

As every artist and word crafter knows, the creative process—the stream of unconscious flow—remains magical, mystical, and even mysterious as the mind begins transforming ideas and images into a poetical organism. It is a timeless experience despite the relentless ticking wall clocks and seasons ebbing by. An hour in such endeavors seems like minutes. Hence, the author serves a life sentence—condemned to compose verse.

In the first section, I trace my life before the turning point. The second section poetically describes Jesus’s birth, life, crucifixion, and resurrection. My clinical and life experiences inspired selections in the last two sections.

Section One – B. C. Until 2-18-78

Black And White

The screen explodes

like flash bulbs

in a burnt-out room.

An astronaut severed

from ancient space walk

somersaults through galactic dust,

past dying suns and methane moons—

a fossil jettisoned on solar winds

until Red Eye Cinema shuts its lid—

The National Anthem,

then a static Amen.

A big toe pushes the knob.

A test pattern contracts to a bright dot,

dims to a speck, shrinks into nothingness.

The dark Cyclops winks at the viewer.

August 1969

He hitched to the dairy farm

and for three days soared under Aquarius.

Gracie’s eyes, bluer than seas of denim.

Incense and balloons rising above muck.

Helicopters zooming like dragonflies

over White Lake shallows. Between monsoons

heads blossomed as pond lilies to brief sun.

Jimi, red bandana

swathed around his purple head,

turquoise velvet pants shimmering,

guitar throbbing electric pulses

through monolithic amps—

minds kissed the sky.

The Aquarian National Anthem

“I want to take you higher” split the night

when Sly, clamping a microphone,

cried “higher” and thousands echoed “HIGHER.”

Aftermath. Yasgur’s dairy farm:

a landfill of muddy sleeping bags,

trash, rent-a-johns.

Crickets chirped

the fourth night

until the end of time.

Close Encounter Of The Worst Kind

Those nights at the Wit’s End, backseat trips,

Black-light dungeons, white rabbit journeys

down strobing holes, shrooms and roaches lit my fire . . .

the doors of perception hazed—not cleansed.

Too close an encounter with a funeral pyre:

drove a beetle, hyperventilated a j,

passed out on two-lane HWY 17.

The Spirit in the sky steered me

to the right. Cushioned by bushes

I stopped unhurt by a Carolina swamp,

awoke amid a concerto of Jeremiahs

croaking at black-water edge.

Where would I be if, left alone in 69,

I passed out, steered into the left lane

as campers, lumber trucks, tractor trailers

blasted toward me?

Split Night

Streetlights glare through blinds—

blazon bars brand the wall.

On a pad

Cattails cry dewdrops down whiskered stems—

feathery clouds nestle duck-egg-blue skies . . .

starched capitals in spilt alphabet soup.

Heidegger’s “House of Language” is rubble.

Metaphysics nests in the loft;

its droppings splatter on the desk.

Hope sinks into the blotter.

No more jet hair tickling my nose.

No more strawberry kisses.

Five cans of Colt 45 gun the evening down.

In icy waters, hope clings to threads of light.

The waterbed is frozen over—sleet sheets

are walls of ice.

Clamping a raw pillow

numb all over,

I fall through the sheer bed

into a crevasse of sheet sides

narrowing into a vast abyss.

Thumbs Down

Pounding pavement.

Pounding pavement.

Pounding

Pounding

Pounding

Hitching exhaust fumes

as semis and flat tops rage by—

campers and U-Hauls clog inner lanes.

It takes only one mechanical host

for this parasite’s ride on 95 South.

Two men with thistley faces taxi me

through Georgia in a crumpled van.

They snort cheap vodka, munch Milky Ways

and drawl about a paralyzed son

withering in a VA Hospital. I nod

as a fly buzzes in and out of hearing.

At dusk near Woodbine

I’m jettisoned by an exit,

knee deep in retreads.

Pines are saber-toothed

against the Zodiac.

The headlights

and hungry jaws

of a bug-eating grill blast by,

horn blaring finger waving

red lights squeeze into a red dot

disappear into the black hole

of a deep December night.

2-18-78

A childhood Bible fossilized

in a cinder-block bookcase

between The Whole Earth Catalogue,

Man’s Search for Meaning, and a razored-out book

camouflaging a stash. “To believe or not believe”—

the question percolating for months.

This evening I drive to Chapel Hill,

streetlights dopplering by the open window.

A thought blazes through thin space on 421N:

“Are you going to accept Jesus as the Son of God, or not?”

Stunned. Shocked. I drive some miles entranced.

My voice yells out the window “Yes—yes!”

The next night a dream erupted:

I grasp at a slick, stainless-steel dome,

above layers of propellers

on the same axis, and slide

into a huge vat of gritty crankcase oil.

Spectators above cannot reach my oily hand

and I sink deeper into quick oil

until

oil turns into warm water.

I float, a buoy, in the womb of God.

Section Two - Jesus Life

In The Beginning

In the Beginning was the Word . . .1

Smaller than a pin prick, 10-35 of a second:

an infinite point burst into quantum soup

as light streaks through the darkest void—

sparks flaring in the abyss

“Do you know the laws of the heavens? Can you set up God’s dominion over the earth?”2

Space time geometry, an elastic grid,

curves as a white marble

bends a black sheet

held taut by its four corners

“What is the way to the abode of light? And where does darkness reside?”3

Star hatcheries compress gas and grains,

Birthing broods of fiery blobs,

spinning faster and faster

around nuclear furnaces

“Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades? Can you loosen Orion’s belt? Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons or lead out the Bear with its cubs?”4

Dust seeds collide, fuse and swell,

pulling matter and growing

larger and larger into moons and planets,

pirouetting in elliptical dances through galactic ballrooms

“Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens: Who created all these?”5

Not what but Who.

Dark Forces

Dark forces accelerate galaxies toward infinite pitch.

Dark forces beckon constellations in celestial waltzes.

Dark forces shade acceleration, force, and mass.

Dark forces attract matter and masses of human particles.

Dark forces remain in velocity unless acted upon by an irresistible force.

Dark forces’ gravitational fields cannot grasp light.

Dark forces masquerade as light.

Dark forces light darkness.

Dark forces darken light.

Dark forces repel light and the Light of the world.

In His Own Image

—Gen. 1:27

Potter kneaded, patted

wet clay into two adama beings,

then breathed his image,

stored breath in the abyss

of their brains.

Potter spoke one single, solitary, sole warning.

She sashayed about,

gazed on a lustrous creature;

its vertical-eye slits piercing hers.

Words slithered off its tongue, until she

turned, strolled through ferns to glistening ripeness

at arm’s span—reaching—plucking a plump fruit—

mouth wetting—pulling it close—opening wide—

A season passed. They scavenged,

foraged amid whirling dust between

two rivers, swatted gadflies, snatched

eggs and nightly did what beasts do.

This night

as he knew her under Eucalyptus boughs,

Potter blew breath into her egg and into

1 squiggler (of 150,000,000)

as it wiggled through jellied skin.

He seeded generation after generation

Mustérion

—a mystery or secret doctrine, Strong's Concordance

She—dark eyebrows, inky eyes,

raven hair, olive skin—bakes as her family

works in fields.

She daydreams about that bearded man

under their ketubah . . . so handsome!

but exiling such thoughts she

reaches for flatbread toasting in a pan.

The dim room incandesces with blinding light—

an iridescent figure speaks

words, piercing her soul—

then vanishes      his image seared

in her sight           the room dims

bread smokes     she seizes it

burnt                      then sits staring

at smoke wafting through

the small window contemplating

“. . . the power of the Most High will overshadow you. . .” *

Pale Blue Dot

In this universe of cosmic waltzes,

birthing suns, colossal novas,

marooned moons, looping planets,

the Unmoved Mover pointed his finger

at this pale blue dot eons ago,

and Spirit beamed light

into the ovum

of a Galilean Hebrew girl.

Cristes Masse

This night a couple begged for space in a stall.

Starlight unveiled her swollen belly.

Her face grimaced like his. The couple

collapsed on straw, dung, pigeon droppings.

A stranger rose,

dragged an empty feeding trough

to the couple, folded his mantle inside it,

glanced,

What is this glimmering shaft outside,

aiming at the stable’s doorway?

Yeshua

—Aramaic and Hebrew name, meaning “God is salvation.”

“Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?”

—John 1:46

Peasant woodworker, after John dunked you, your vision quest

lured you into wilderness. Sawdust propped your memories;

pot shards filled Your stomach. Wild eyes gleamed in moonlight.

A specter sat behind you in a stony cleft and baited the hook.

On the path into Galilee, a dove, talons bared,

hovered and shadowed as you toiled on.

Your words rattled some, inflamed many

and your hands plumbed warped spines

until the last night. In the garden

the dove’s talons kissed your cheek.

Men stretched and nailed you, an animal hide

to crossbeams you hewed and planed years ago.

Dogs licked your twitching toes.

“It is finished.” *

As sun bubbles burst on the Sea of Galilee,

chilly wavelets washed your toes.

You inhaled damp gusts. They saw you

and anchored for your feast on shore.

Then you vanished into cobalt skies.

Christ Has No Crown

You threw the King of Bread crown

into a pan of leaven mixed with fish scales

and hid it from their sight.

You threw the King of the Jews crown

into blood-soaked dust,

softly knocked on countless doors,

and whispered through locks:

“I have anointed you with YHWH’s oil.

His Spirit saturates every space and crack.

Wherever you go, all roads lead to Emmaus.

Give grapes for thorns, figs for thistles.

Be just to those on the underbelly.

You will plunge

through the needle’s eye

and rise to dance with me.”

First Light

“Sisters, I heard you weeping and moaning

then all was dark as a tomb at night.

I felt myself bob the way a small boat

reels across a large body of water.

All brightened, and I had to blink my eyes—

two shiny figures caught and lifted me;

their wings shimmered like water in sunlight.

I gazed at the distant purpling skies,

then saw trees sagging with lush mangos,

oranges, kiwis, and melodious voices

singing so sublime I could have cried

but they whispered, ‘It is time to return.’

Their radiance dimmed and faded

until all was black, and I lay stone still.

Sisters, I heard a voice piercing my soul:

‘Lazarus come out.’1 I was lifted up—

‘Take off the grave clothes and let him go.’2

Precious sight! I saw your startled, tear-filled faces,

and our families with his faithful friends.

He spoke the truth: there is no darkness there.”

Seventy AD Until . . .

Jesus eyed the temple and spoke

of stones crumbling to dust,

swords flashing like lightning,

stars dropping like hail

on lanes, meadows, trees,

the sun black as a raven’s eye.

When The Hour Came . . .1

Dread leavened the meal.

The specter snatched silver promises—

to grind the Bread of Life with his heel.

Rabboni baptized their feet

in water, sweat and tears

for the calloused miles

He knew they would tread.

He broke his body’s bread

and poured his garden’s cup

as they stared—

pupils reflecting candlelight

into his lucid eyes.

. . . he gave it to Judas. . .2

dipped in blood. The specter

entered Judas’ darkened heart

and whispered the darkest way.

With washed feet, he slunk away.

And it was night.3

When The Wood Was Green

“Last night was warm. I slept under the stars.

An olive tree swayed, swished a hazy moon.

I heard noises and saw torches flicker

up the dark slope. Men tramped closer, closer

until they circled round that scruffy man

and a small crew of his associates.

I got up and wrapped linen around me,

Then peeked from behind a large olive tree.

A mob of soldiers and priests waved torches;

I could not hear them, but one kissed his cheek.

They seized and shackled that man I once heard,

‘A Prophet’ many claimed. His friends scattered.

They led him down the slope and I followed

until one of them yelled, ‘He’s one of them.’

A guard grabbed me, gripped, and pulled my linen.

I shouted, ‘I don’t know this man,’

broke bare and dashed in the dark grove

until I knew they quit and turned away.

Torches faded in the Kidron Valley.

A cool breeze caused me to shake and shiver;

I put on my tunic and went to sleep.

At sunrise a guard poked me with his sword.

‘Is this the linen cloth you left behind?’

‘It is; it still has an old red wine stain.

I don’t know that man! I’m the gardener.’

The soldier eyed me, squinted in sunlight.

He smirked, threw the linen cloth at my chest,

sheathed his sword and walked down the stony path.”

“This happened last night in the Olive grove?”

“Yes. I’m lucky the soldier let me go.”

“So, where is this ‘Prophet from Galilee?’”

“I don’t know. It is Passover today.

Untie the goat and we can start our walk.”

“What do you think they did to the prophet?”

“One time I passed by as he said ‘. . . from the blood

of Abel to blood of Zechariah * . . .’

I think he was talking about himself.”

Immediately One Of Them Ran . . .1

“I am a jeweler and own a few slaves.

I am a citizen, Caput Mundi!

I saw many of them during this time.

Strange race, odd religion. They worship some

Storm-sky God behind massive ashlar stones.

Seditionists and murderers were tried

and convicted; the worst were led, pinioned

so everyone would heed Pax Romana.

Let me explain what preceded that day.

I heard him in the Court of the Gentiles.

He spoke like no other rabble rouser

or other Jewish insurrectionists—

something about the ‘Greatest Commandment’,2

‘You are not far from the kingdom of God’3

and this: ‘they devour widows’ houses.’4

The governor ordered him to a cross,

which brings me to the account I witnessed.

I have seen many whipped, nailed and then hung

on crosses around their city. This Jew

was unusual. Over six hours, between two thieves

He rarely spoke. I heard this, ‘. . . forgive them . . .’5

and near the end he groaned and pled in pain

‘I am thirsty.’6 What I did was most surprising—

I ran, soaked a sponge with someone’s cheap wine,

ran back, jabbed it on a stick, and held it

up for him to drink. His brow drained blood.

Above him they nailed THE KING OF THE JEWS.7

His eyes actually pierced into my soul!

Soon he looked up and cried ‘It is finished.’8

I saw his head droop, heard women wailing.

As I said, I saw many crucified

but this ‘Yeshua’ . . . always remember

how he watched me. Never forget his eyes.”

Passover

Pandemonium. Hebrew pilgrims chant, walk on stones

and dung; beasts bray, babies cry, dogs bark, soldiers frisk

for sicarii, birds circle overhead for dropped scraps.

Smoke rises and settles over the temple.

Outside on Skull Hill,

a small crowd watches a grisly spectacle,

three men skewed on crosses. Soldiers yawn and glare.

Inside, hush. Priests stepping on muted sandals,

passing at distance from the Tabernacle veil—

sixty by ninety feet, fine flax linen woven into cords, a handbreadth thick,

embroidered with blue, scarlet, purple, and cherubim guarding—

dozens or more priests ready to draw the tapestry aside.

Behind the holy veil, in the inner room,

The Holy of Holies—where YHWH dwells.

Once a year, Atonement Day, the High Priest

dared to enter, sprinkled blood.

At 3 p.m. Skull Hill. Jesus looked last

into dark clouds, prayed, gasped,

bled out and nodded his head.

The curtain parted like the Red Sea.

The Crown On The Skull

What kind of God?

Carlos, four, a pharaoh mummy wrapped

in a hospital sheet, trampled by Leukemia’s horde.

Widow Mary, today seventy, is bludgeoned, defiled—

Her hand-stitched quilt blood-splotched.

Darker days will come.

What kind of God?

Pounding, pounding, the worn mallet

drives iron spikes flesh deep, wood deeper.

Nails mark hideous symmetry.

A peg juts from the gibbet, seating his weight.

Cross wood for crossbones, they

raise the rack against grisly clouds.

His mouth, a dried gourd, is bitter

from manwood’s venom.

Fly legions, biting ants, rupturing tissues,

sun fever—finish it! At midafternoon,

the smoldering wick goes out; a last

wisp of smoke vanishes in bloodshot skies.

Manwood’s shadow, a darkened hood,

drapes the place of the skull,

and if it were possible,

the bones of memory.

What kind of God?

Two days pass.

Dawn’s golden sash flutters from red-tipped borders.

First Breath breathes. Light awakes,

rises from the mouth of the pit,

and blazes through every tomb.

Science Fiction

Skewered on a post and beam, he groaned writhed pleaded

sweated out bled out breathed out his last

and his spirit—zero mass and pure energy—

began streaking past the moon, Jupiter’s spot, Pluto . . .

faster than gamma rays, solar tsunamis,

through neutrino hearts and black hole maws

past Andromeda’s suburbs and event horizons

into the blackest oblivion at -455°

infinitely faster than photons

across fifty-billion light years

in a billionth of a second . . .

to brake in a sunless place

of luminosity, with shimmering beings

floating towards him like cygnets to a swan,

feathery warmth brushing his face.

He zoomed back, tearing through space strings

the way a spark flares through thread,

through Europa’s krill and moon’s shadow,

into a punctured corpse chilled on a stone ledge.

He opened his eyes.

Awakening

Heart pulsing, he felt hands pull him upright,

then peel his head wrap and linen strips.

He blinked. His two shimmering friends

luminated coarse walls, dried blood

on the ledge, the stone wheel in chiseled groove,

his naked body. He flicked off dark flakes.

They lowered a tunic on him

white as Gardenia, bound a loincloth,

fastened sandals. Chill lifted.

With feathery touch they soothed

punctures on His brow and body.

He raised hands, head, breathing deeply.

Like a denarius on a table,

they rolled aside the stone wheel

as the ground seized and tremored,

floated outside and flashed in the dawn.

As he stepped forth guards fainted on damp soil.

He feasted on the pink sky, silver-crested clouds,

Purple-rock roses and yellow-crown daisies.

A wren warbled, and her suitor landed on a branch.

Among olive trees women approached.

He smiled and stepped forward.

Monday 33 AD

After they pried out Rome’s nails

from his wrists and ankles, the post stood

wound-soaked, for the next one.

Crossbeams, strewn in piles,

awaited another seditionist,

or King against Pax Romana.

Pontius Pīlātus knew this week

those bearded temple worshipers—

and their invisible “God” superstition—

finally gone for another year.

A bloody mess he thought

rivers of animal blood . . .

the stench from the Valley of Hinnom

will last for days! King of the Jews, huh?

Well, I have a busy Monday.

Others would be dragged before his Bema.

Better wash my face and get going.

The post and crossbeam lasted decades

until sun and rain and worms rotted it away.

Others replaced them.

Nineteen centuries later,

NTIUS PILATUS was found

inscribed on a limestone block.

Flesh Of My Flesh

The flesh is the hinge of salvation.

—Tertullian, Latin Church Father, c. 155 – 220

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.1

Suckled on Mary’s breasts. Rocked in Joseph’s arms. Hebrew family.

Chestnut eyes. Olive skin. Curly-black hair. Wiry limbs. Plain face.

Rough hands. Calloused feet. Sweated summers. Swatted mosquitos.

Shivered winters. Touched lepers. Hugged children. Freed captives. Fed souls.

Wept currents. Lit dark hearts. Blinded and sighted. Soothed grief. Rebuked death.

Planted seeds. Bore fruit. Shared bread. Spoke truth. Obeyed nails. Speared. Died.

Rose unshrouded, pierced, jubilant, then left his flesh with a commandment

“Therefore go and make disciples of all nations”, . . .2

Testimony

A tectonic shift severs a mountain face from a Canary Island volcano;

the colossal landslide propels a fifty-foot Leviathan towards coasts.

Magma under the Yellowstone Caldera explodes;

ash plumes lather the earth and gel in lung cavities.

A three-mile tumbling asteroid collides with Antarctica,

blows ice flakes and penguin atoms thirty miles.

Axis and Allied men launch tons of nuclear missiles,

pulverizing matter into mushroom clouds, radioactive rain.

Prayers evaporate like rivers and lakes into bloodshot smoke

as Ozymandias’ monoliths collapse into rubble and ruin.

. . . whose rider is called Faithful and True.1

pilots a celestial horse with armies following:

“. . . Yes, I am coming soon!” 2

Section Three – Neighbors

Neighbors

Sagan’s The Pale Blue Dot lies on the sand

as south wind asteroids pack between pages.

The breakers’ cadence pounds the sand.

A drunk snores under a hazy sun.

A child squats in a tidal pool.

Gulls brawl over a chip.

Two lovers probe beneath the waves

and on a dazzling green dot one

and thirty-six zero light years away,

feathered beings paw in emerald sand

remembering a winged Messiah who

soared among them a billion years ago.

Metamorphosis

In a therapy group, a silver-crowned woman begins:

At ten her life of dolls, skipping rope, Saturday

cartoons and Tyger sleeping by her side

(one eye gone; one whisker left)

froze, as a visiting uncle slinked

into her bedroom some nights . . .

She flew to a cemetery memory

with her best friend when, on a dare,

they snuck out at midnight under a new moon

and crisscrossed between silhouetted gravestones.

Sunlight blazed across her eyes through bedroom blinds.

Did I dream this? Why was Tyger on the floor?

Why did mother blurt, “It was a stupid dream—

Never speak of it again?”

The group freezes with her.

Tyger knows. So does Jesus.

Her group enters the bedroom,

comforts the ten-year-old girl,

whose fifty-year-old tears

stream and cleanse.

(Many poems in this section were inspired by the author’s professional experiences over forty years as a case manager, addiction, mental health clinician and volunteer experience.)

Sacred Heart

. . . and laying his hands on each one, he healed them.

—Luke 4:40.

Though his single thought or word could

flash across the universe and instantly

heal souls from seizures, withered

hands, blindness—he favored touching,

stroking, soothing them into wholeness.

Eons since, this soul follows his light.

Today I visit a godly human whose heart

strains to pump blood through narrow pipes

his cardiac plumber could not unclog . . .

risks renal failure, breathing

uneasy                    chest           tight . . .

He leans back on a couch, closes his eyes.

I anoint, pray for the Lord to unblock,

expand vessels and veins. I cross his heart,

rest this veiny hand on his chest:

“Jesus, heal his heart—deliver him—

fill him with your Spirit . . .”

then my brother spoke of impacted heartache—

his ex-blamed him for their son’s

spiral into drugs and death,

how his heart hurt like Paul’s thorn.

I invite Jesus into his heart and mind.

He pauses, breathes deeply, sighs,

“I saw Jesus go to her, stretch his arms,

weep, and forgive her!”

My friend opened his eyes

“I felt the presence of the Lord.”

After The Club

Some confuse a fist with a heart.

A bullet with a lesson.

His was a hollow-point that hemorrhaged

from his bowels after he unwittingly knocked

over a glass of water on a club table.

In green light he fluttered, a Luna Moth

who rose before EMS arrived.

In group his mom hemorrhaged tears

“Over a damned glass of spilt water.”

The minute hand deepens her wound

as she treads on her Möbius strip.

Paper cuts crisscross her wrists.

What words, what touch

can heal the flow of blood and water

from her pierced soul?

Telling Stories

In dark corners voices present

their lives—some strewn as

potato skins to cackling crows.

“Dad beat me like he’d a man.

He was just mean and used to go to bars

to hurt people. One night

by a tomato row he grabbed ma’s head.

His thumb gouged her eye socket and

he dragged her nearly through the backyard.

Her eye bulges to this day. Ma never left him.”

Silt rose in my throat.

“It ended when he was drunk out

on the couch and I beat him

and beat him and beat him with an egg skillet

until he opened a bloodshot eye

and I held a hawkbill by his eyeball

‘If you lay a hand on me again . . ..’

He never touched me after that.

Hardly ever eyeballed me, either.”

Shedding drop by drop, she dries, quenched.

What redemption can my pity bring?

Mine is the glint of blade across opened eyes.

Darkness Within Darkness

At 4:22 AM he staggers up

and looks out the window.

Wintry clouds drape treetops.

The last can lodges on the floor;

the empty pipe perches on the table.

Wind howls, blasts through cracking trees,

stabs through the sill.

He rubs his wrist on its blue edge.

Frosty clouds spew a monstrous moon.

In the window a silvery phantom appears,

whispering his name. Cold pitch smothers it.

The can and pipe beckon in the dark.

Then a faint but clear voice gasps, “It’s time.”

Warm currents fill every cell and space.

He stands, stomps the can and pipe,

throws them in the rubbish.

In the morning, he knows what he will do.

Cool Spring Street

Between rig rushes, dark figures feasted on her flesh.

At first light she slogged home to her canvas cot

and snored in a dank living room. At noon

I see a bikini blanketing her scrawny shape.

Her head skews toward her left inner arm—

purple mouth drains into a pillowcase.

She dreams of fishhooks swirling

in crystalline currents on mirror pools.

Skin is ghostly sheen.

What power will give life to her drying bones?

Who will transfigure her marrow,

string sinews from joint to joint,

grow flesh on her skeletal frame,

swaddle her with healthy skin?

Who will open her tomb and

breathe spirit back into her soul?

Yoke Fellows

At the Cherry Street Prison Camp chapel basement,

a Eucharist of cake slices on napkins covers two tables.

An ossuary of books packs shelves and air is catacomb stale.

Seated around tables, we hear their footsteps above.

Inmates trickle, then swell and fill the room.

They sit eating chocolate and pound cakes

as we wait with Bibles open.

At our table, we turn to Ezekiel 18:30-32.

“I’m John.” He reads, “’Therefore, you Israelites, I will judge each of you according to your own ways, declares the Sovereign Lord. Repent! Turn away from all your offenses; then sin will not be your downfall. Rid yourselves of all the offenses you have committed and get a new heart and a new spirit. Why will you die, people of Israel? For I take no pleasure in the death of anyone, declares the Sovereign Lord. Repent and live!’”

We pause. A tattooed man owns up, “I’m Willie.

Took me coming to prison to set me free.”

They nod.

Mike leans on his Bible.

“Prison saved my life. I was a dead man running.”

A Yokefellows graduate, now volunteer:

“I pulled an eleven year stretch behind razor wire.

There more prisoners outside—feel what I’m saying?

You’re free. You lost time but gained eternity, didn’t you?

Rough on the outside, men. Keep to the Word.”

They bump knuckles. Bibles close.

Prayers are offered to the Lord God.

The men bow as monks during Vespers,

then leave—ascending into the chapel above,

their footsteps pounding

on the stairwell

like nails.

Disperse The Gloomy Clouds of Night *

There is no December snow in lock-up.

Each door is bank-vault thick.

Some thirty men sit on rigid plastic

chairs as we enter. Voices ricochet

from concrete, linoleum surfaces.

They lull as we hand out Christmas carols.

The atmosphere shifts: gloomy to sunny

as raspy voices sing “Joy to the World,

Away in a Manger.” Then I open

to the grand passage where Jesus unfurls

a scroll and read Isaiah 61:1:

‘He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim freedom for the captives

and release from darkness for the prisoners, . . .’

They watch closely. Some nod, knuckle bump.

We sing a last carol, pass cookies, soda,

and bags of toiletries for all.

The concrete climate softens.

*from the ancient hymn “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.”

The Road Divides

The man had three months more

of a seventy month stretch.

On Interstate 40 he looked up

at the ledge under a bridge overpass.

The guard: “Get to it; bag that trash.”

They climbed a 45° concrete slope to the shaded sill,

scooped food wrappers, empty bottles, grimy blankets,

cardboard mattresses, butts, and a Gideon’s Bible

into black bags. Foggy from car exhaust.

Spiders watched from silken homes.

He shoved his bag down, a colossal bowling ball

striking the bridge column. Spare.

He studied the empty ledge; the angles

formed triangles, rectangles, crisscrossed lines—

hard edges straight as prison rules

until a dove swooped below,

landed in her nest, preened her wings.

“Let’s hit the road, men.”

At the bottom he saw a ragged man limp,

stop a few feet away. “Where’s my stuff?”

“Man, I’m sorry; the guard told us to bag everything up.”

He gazed at his vacant space.

“You got to do what the man says.”

The inmate sighed. As cars blasted by,

he walked to the prison bus.

A few homeless men advanced,

watched their lives stuffed into trash bags.

He grabbed his bagged lunch,

turned to the man and said, “It’s yours.”

A few inmates got their lunches

and gave them away too.

Via Crucis

—Latin, “the way of the cross”

For decades he attends to mom, now ninety-four

with legs thin as her walker, veins thick

as her wrists—glacial blue rivulets trickling

toward her heart. She maneuvers between chairs

to the table. Cream of Wheat, finger tested,

waits as she gropes for a spoon. He butters toast.

Her vision only works askew.

He rests, smokes on the porch. The orange tree

is dead at the crown. Two lime lizards glare,

swell red throats on a branch, bob heads. The

other tree, a sawn stump, still fills its space.

She navigates to the couch and reclines.

Crushing a butt, he washes her bowl and cup,

then drapes her feet with a sweater.

Her eyelids flutter, seal. She winces—

pain pierces her cracked rib.

In Madonna’s embrace

she rests, holds a rosary.

He signs, watches her fragile chest barely lift

her lace smock. He covers her with a cotton quilt.

Days erode

like columns

in Greek ruins.

Crab Nebula

Over a year the alien shrouds

her lower kidney, major vessels—

swells the way leaven does dough.

It is ravenous, relentless, ruthless—

strangles her urethra until

one Monday night, searing pain

buckles her knees. She collapses;

spouse dials 911. Sirens deafen.

EMS holds a hand, propels her

Nascar speed into the ER.

Morpheus numbs her into delirium.

MRI exposes the pitiless parasite

impervious, indifferent, immune

to probing eyes, fingers. “You have

a mass below your left kidney.”

First round chemo. Five-day marathon—

twenty-six miles seems a stroll.

The alien, agitated, feeds in frenzy—

snickers at her nausea her frailty

her apparition in the hospital mirror.

Hundreds of prayers radiate it.

Spirit shrivels it like burnt bacon.

Sniveling dark energies flee

like bats out of a cave.

She knows she shall be free.

Vestigia Dei

—Latin, “footprints of God”

Our work crew unpacks rip saws,

bow saws, table saws, sawhorses, levels, drills,

hammers, wood screws, shank nails, lag bolts and deck lumber

as Bessie, seventy-something, greets us on her splintery deck.

Avoiding wobbly handrails, she steps over a missing plank,

hair silver streaked in the October sun. Yellow Jackets

hovered lazily about, tempered this cool morning.

Wielding sledgehammers, pry bars, and back leverage,

we grunt loose warped steps, toss them aside; then

nail stringers, screw joists

as spiders and crickets

peer at we Leviathan invaders.

Sawing and nailing sawing and screwing resawing

and refitting, sawdust drifts over her lawn. A splinter

pierces my palm from a weatherworn beam.

New steps, planks and railings make a woody resurrection.

When done, Bessie grabs the railing, studies new planks,

looks around “My my . . . my my . . . my soul . . ..”

Sawdust footprints follow ahead.

I Wonder As They Wander

Below Maple Springs’s spire they descend basement stairs

into the pantry waiting room, take numbers, sit on folding chairs.

Those forty or so souls wobble

on worn feet, ragged bicycles, hybrid buses,

cars with blistering paint and caked child seats.

She, eyes black as coffee, shows a water bill

$90 past due (in red), bags her rations, rests

on dog-paw elbows, smiles at her new toothbrush.

He, face worn as barn floor planks,

owes $400, no power two months

and picks cereal, dry goods, soup cans.

Then the last one. Yankee accent,

tells his migration from Connecticut

to some three-gas-station town in SC

to here, strokes a black beard and gazes beyond me,

over pantry shelves into a heavenly place his eyes know,

rips open a bag of chips with mussel thumbnails,

leaves, plastic bags sagging in each hand.

I wonder how the Good News

speaks in noodle soup,

sliced wheat bread,

and applesauce.

At The Splash Pad

fountains spray rainbow arcs as

kids crawl, waddle, scurry,

squeal, giggle, squirt blasters,

empty pails on one other.

A child, cornrowed and diapered,

steps on and off a geyser, squash-spurt,

squash-spurt, enraptured. Emma squats

and laughs under a mushroom waterfall

as moms, dads, and grands

hawk-eye their hatchlings when he,

eighty plus, water-balloon jowled, says

“Never saw such a gathering back then,”

wiping his sunglasses, “might had hoses

propped in their backyards.” Children skim round

the spray ground. A boy darts under the shelter,

and I turn to his burly dad, sporting braids.

He wraps and towels his son.

“We’re having a peek into heaven.”

Section Four – Reflections

Mountain Echo

Drive into blue-ridged mountains

on a looping, two-lane road.

Observe the crag face,

the hawk soaring.

Hike through grasses and briars

until you lean over precipice.

Survey the vast blueness in crystal air.

As feet touch the jagged rim,

track pebbles vanishing down

rugged cliff walls to the remote gorge.

A stream glitters—a mica snake.

Jutting ledges and pitched clefts

threaten to greet brain and bone.

Spread your arms into wings,

and shout from the bottom of your throat

“There is no God!”

Who echoes in distant crags,

ragged forests, massive granite,

the hawk’s talons uncoiled

for the strike?

Listening

Prayer is an ascent of the spirit to God.

—Evagrius Ponticus, Chapters On Prayer

Leaning back against Jesus, he asked Him, “Lord, who is it?” *

Listening to the heartbeat of God:

breath fogging frost this fall night

moon shadows winding through the path

ice needles budding on grass blades

owls hooting, hooting from the gorge

thoughts whooshing through mind’s cosmos

joy pulsing deeper than hip pain

on the breast of Jesus.

Undistracted Prayer

“Undistracted prayer is the highest act of the intellect.”

—Evagrius Ponticus, Chapters on Prayer.

To sit still in light or dark, seeking neither,

eyelids tight as mussel shells

silence deep as storm cellars

inner voices hushed

for a moment. Or two.

Mind’s eye blinks. The noonday demon stirs

the body’s temple into squirming,

curling and uncurling toes, tasting

that first wet kiss at the dark doorway,

then a shin furiously itches

until skin packs under fingernails.

I blink, exhale, and try again.

You Were My God

“From birth I was cast on you; from my mother’s womb you have been my God.”

—Ps. 22:10

On the S-shaped, metal patio rocking chair,

a slight nod on this oversized spring nudges

grandpa and Emma up and down up and down

buoy-bobbing on green seas.

Her eyelashes flutter still as

she swoons into baby dreams

on my chest, milk curdling

on her lower lip.

As wisteria fragrance crests through porch screens,

during    each     bob    I    silently    whisper

“Abba        Abba        Abba.”

The Atlantic To The Empyrean

Storm sheets darken horizon’s edge,

smudging graphite and charcoal.

Scattered rain pokes poxes on low tide sand.

Winds whip white caps as sand blasts gutters

and balcony railings. A gull rows headwind

several yards from my condo porch.

I see colossal wall clouds flashing,

smothering a few blue dabs.

I ponder a damp prayer list:

Joe—addiction hooking his brain . . .

Jan—cancer migrating from a lymph node . . .

twelve souls working, assassinated and

their beloveds with them . . .

faster than thought

through wind, surf roar,

pummeling rain, I see

each prayer winging

through raven clouds

toward the Father’s

heart.

Ninth Hour

9:00

Cherry blossoms burst with nova whiteness.

Green slivers jut from barren dogwoods.

A pounding mallet bruises my eardrums.

10:00

Rain pummels asphalt with dark splatter.

Muddy torrents wash earthworms in gutters.

My porch reeks of sweat and groaning.

11:00

A drenched robin huddles on her nest.

A gust blasts rain sideways,

howls through the grottoes of my heart.

12:00

A storm ridge veils the land.

Sirens and dogs wail through thunder.

I bite an apple and see the worm at my core.

1:00

Lightning sears a pine’s spire,

splinters a birdhouse.

A scorched nest bounces to a hedge.

2:00

Willows pour cataracts.

A blackbird wades toward a floating bug.

I sponge spilt vinegar and squeeze drops into my eyes.

3:00

A yellow finch huddles on the birdbath.

My spirit is torn in two, top to bottom

as blood and water soak into the earth.

Good Friday Remembrance

Morning. Third hour.

I stroll in the woods. Dogwoods bloom

like cauliflower chunks in leafy salad.

I inhale damp earth with every step.

A brook rafts pine pollen downstream.

A catbird pricks her nest with pine needles.

You are skewered on a stinking cross.

Noon. Sixth hour.

Storms sweep across the continent

and deluge NC. Back porch screens

are fluid and filmy. Sirens ebb and flow

from Silas Creek Parkway. Steady rain

could have drenched your misery—

but black clouds only shrouded midday heat,

not feasting flies or jeering gawkers.

Afternoon. Ninth hour.

Storms pass.

Plants on porch sills perch, as birds

chorus from bowed boughs.

Evergreens sag from water weight.

Carpenter bees peek from holes under eaves.

A Yucca’s leaf tip stabs like a Roman spear.

Seven Miles From Home

As this evening dims,

cherry blossoms swirl into drifts roadside

and blow pink flakes on my windshield.

A voice hidden between thoughts

murmurs of him veiled, of those

ancient two walking on a pebbled road

who failed to know the stranger

as they dried their eyes.

. . . He explained to them what was said

in all the Scriptures concerning himself 1

but his words barely prick plugged ears

and scaly eyes. Later, at table,

their hearts stood still: after he blessed bread,

their eyes unscaled. He vanished in a blink.

Driving on that road nearing dusk,

shades and shadows shrouding this evening,

his words “How foolish you are, and how slow to believe

all that the prophets have spoken,” 2

pierce me deep.

In Dark Times

In dark times the ways of God are inscrutable—

rivers flooding lives away

his malignancy

her cold-case jaw found by a hiker—

becomes personal.

In dark times

did God plan such pitiless rendezvous?

A toss of cosmic dice that lands

snake-eyes up, so faith

is brutally bruised?

God doesn’t play dice.

In dark times

hope looks discarded,

and God feels distant as

Day Star’s dimmest plea

that afternoon.

Deus absconditus?

In dark times

when his light seems snuffed,

his sacred heart—

through loyal saints, family,

friends and Spirit—rubs salve

drop

by

drop.

Asleep

Multitudes who sleep in the dust of the earth will awake: some to everlasting life, others to shame and everlasting contempt.

—Daniel 12.2

A cardinal, mystified, perches on a stainless-steel dog dish—

gazed into frozen water—a red reflection

mimes every move.

By a holly shrub, a feathered shape is frozen.

Wind pounds a wooden fence. Overhead,

Canadian geese lance gray skies.

Afternoon, 19° as I jog

wearing a ski and surgical mask,

through swirls of snow into upper Bethabara,

its ancient Moravian cemetery checkered

by gravestones protruding from snow.

I pause, pant at one on the furthermost corner.

Brushing snow dust, the name eroded,

1741– 1794.

Sleeping?

Last Sunrise

60°. Ashen sky.

Rain soaked the path into muck.

Jogging along a surging creek,

my Reeboks are pontoons

squishing leaves on a trail. Mist

haunts in hollows, wets my cheeks.

I cross a slick wooden bridge,

water gushing below.

Ahead the trail steeps up 40°.

I pause, chug water, study the path,

begin jogging up. Reeboks squirt.

Heart pounds. Calves and thighs ache.

Breathing faster. Straining up the soggy slope

Higher—higher—the top in sight . . .

thirty feet away, twenty, ten, five and

then I gasp, steady. In the distance

God’s Acre

Row upon row of weather-chafed, marble-flat markers,

nearly square, four inches high, point eastward;

Lichen splotches over many names.

On a backside arch,

DAWN BREAKS

TILL                            OPEN

Doorway

On hospital beds some curl, moan.

Fluid lines, nasal tubes coil around frail bodies.

Nurses measure pulse rates, body heat, urine levels.

IV pumps grind through neon days and nights.

Caregivers pose like statues in ancient cathedrals.

This one lies alone. No one visits.

Her lungs swell, collapse a skeletal chest.

Cotton bands bind both wrists to steel handrails.

She seems crucified by IV needles.

Well after midnight her eyes open

and stare at the doorway. She whispers “Water.”

The door frame begins to glow, flicker.

A luminous figure appears, arms spread wide.

Needles fly out. Bands unravel, dangle from rails.

She rises and steps into the glow.

Strolling through a shimmering passage,

she emerges into a lush courtyard.

Sauntering to an orange tree, dew drenches

her feet. She plucks a fat one, peels its thick rind,

droplets spray her cheeks.

Between orchids banks a crystal river

bubbles under a colossal throne.

The luminous figure appears by her side,

points at someone coming.

“Sandy?” she cries

as her lost child

runs towards her.

Smuggler

1 a.m. Snowprints trail in moonlight.

He hauls a crammed duffle bag,

boards a dory, paddles noiselessly

across a river. Distant owls hoot.

He tramps up the bank to a plowed dirt road,

sweat dripping, breath fogging in 17° temps.

Headlights snowball—he dives behind a tree,

freezes. A camouflaged truck blasts by,

taillights shrink to red glow, vanish.

His boots crunch on snow. If caught,

torture or worse.

Hours trudge

until he spies the small house silhouetted by stars,

quickens, knocks in code. A door opens, closes,

bolts. Windows shuttered. She lights a candle.

He unzips the bag, yanks aside packed clothes,

reaches up to his shoulder                and places

twelve paperback Bibles across the table.

Inspired by “The Voice of the Martyrs” magazine, https://www.persecution.com.

A/C Apocalypse

The flames of hell burn without light.

—Orthodox saying

85°and rising. A/C quit breathing; plastic tube

clotted like my old subcortical infarct.

Ceiling fans roar the way swamp boats

hydroplane through marshy heat.

Damp facecloth near, I read grim accounts:

Pastors and others, locked in shipping

containers in smothering desert heat,

roast in some sandy hell by the Suez.

A shaft of light sweeps across dismal days.

Holes scooped out by hands for waste.

Satellite photos show their locations:

metal coffins in deserts, islands,

underground bunkers. They dare not

touch the steel box walls

glowing red.

I should blush, A/C “apocalypse.”

The A/C man pumps the clogged pipe.

Soon the house cools by degrees.

“How long, Lord, will the wicked, how long will the wicked be jubilant?”*

Inspired by “The Voice of The Martyrs” magazine.

He Took A Knee

Grim parody.

Carotid channel

compressed.

Black turned blue.

Another soul on ice.

Jesus wept.

“I have come to bring fire on the earth,

and how I wish it were already kindled.” *

Some flicked BICs, balled fists,

and ignited buildings into fiery furnaces

cooler than infernos in their hearts. Others

torched cars, stores, shutters,

gorged on looting—and danced

with the devil in the bright firelight.

Some divine image—forged.

At dawn

bloodshot skies, drenched ruins,

plugged gutters, smoldering embers.

Glass shards paved sidewalks,

vacant streets and edged curbs.

Jesus wept again.

Bloodborne Cup

Plasma Center. Dreading it.

She snaps the strap. Vein bulges

on my inner arm. A stainless-steel mosquito

hovers, plunges, and pierces.

I watch—woozy—as scarlet fluid

fills tube and bag. My heart skips,

pumps a little faster—six quarts of blood,

scalp to toes, three times a minute,

thousands of round trips daily . . .

O_2 in

CO_2 out

cell by cell

seventy-two years

and counting.

At the rail, a pinch of bread

is placed in my open palms.

I dip it into the cup as she says

“This is my blood of the covenant,

which is poured out for many

for the forgiveness of sins.” *

I chew, savoring our LORD’s élan vital—

Dyeing red cells purple, purging, purifying—

his blood transfusing

twenty centuries

and counting.

Light Is His Shadow

I pause in the sanctuary with

granddaughter Emma, beholding

a huge stained-glass window . . .

Joseph leaning, watching—

Mary in blue, sitting, cradling her baby—

sunlight blazing through Jesus’ head,

searing my eyes. I slam shut

fiery brands on my retinas—

his light so bright

I cannot gaze upon him.

Must step aside

and adore him

in sanctuary shade.

Postmodernism Postscript

The cross is a scarecrow

where crows hover and perch

on tomato-stake arms and straw hat

to gawp and caw at button eyes

dripping dewy tears

every morning

above ripening melons.

Benediction to the Reader:

May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ,

and the love of God,

and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all. Amen.

2 Corinthians 13:14

Biblical References

In the Beginning, 1John1:1, 2Job 38:33, 3Job 38:19, 4Job 38:31-32, 5Isaiah 40:26.

Mustérion, *Luke 1:35

Yeshua, *John 19:30.

First Light, 1,2John 11:43,44.

When the Hour Came^1 Luke 22:14, 2John. 13:26; 3John. 13:30.

When the Wood Is Green, *Luke 11:51

Immediately One of Them Ran, 1Matt. 27:48, 2Matt.22:36, 3Mark 12:34, 4Mark 12:40, 5Luke 23:34, 6John19:28, 7Mark 15:26, 8John 19:30.

Flesh of My Flesh, 1John 1:14, 2Matt. 28:19.

Testimony, 1Rev. 19:11, 222:20.

Listening, * John.13:25.

Seven Miles from Home, 1Luke 24:27, 2Luke 24:25

He Took A Knee, * Luke 12:49.

Bloodborne Cup, * Matt. 26:28.