Seven Luminous Mysteries

Seven Luminous Mysteries

A singularity of silence speaks
above complexity, a voice abrupt
startles locust eating crowds in muddy creeks.
It hails a man’s emergent birth, erupt-
ing suddenly from sin-drenched Jordan’s reek.
Who born was blameless now must be corrupt
with every guilt for he has come to seek
the damned. By guilelessness he will disrupt
deceiving systems; cleanse with his own blood
the face of earth, and lead by sweet allure
the lost to heaven’s bliss. Now from the flood
this baptized man is born, his mission sure:
that he should render from the worthless mud
the useful water, lowly, prized and pure.


The useful water, lowly, prized and pure
awaits a moment no one might suppose.
Neglected like a quivered bolt obscure,
it cleanses faces, hands, utensils, bowls
to keep the arcane rites. It must demur
address of treacherous or sinful woes
that desecrate, that blood alone can cure.
At last an unknown wedding guest bestows
upon the jars a word, a secret sign.
His mother sees but whispers nothing more
than “Listen closely, follow his design.”
“Draw some out. There’s plenty more in store,”
he says, “and all shall drink the finest wine.
Today’s the day for unsurpassed accord.”


Today’s the day for unsurpassed accord;
repent, believe the news, it starts today.
Disturbing people, occupied and bored
the shouting healer raced from burg to bay
he sang the news that thrilled the stricken horde.
They came because he brought a sudden ray
of hope where righteousness could not afford
assurance even for the dead. They laid
the sick and crippled, feeble, deaf and blind
beneath his voice, before his eyes, within
his reach; he cured them all. He’d come to find
the ones his father loved, and to begin
a new regime of mercy, to unbind
the shackled earth, so deeply mired in sin.


The shackled earth, so deeply mired in sin,
lay comatose and helpless before his sad-
dened eyes. Where does salvation start when
so little time remains? His early glad
beginnings paled before the demon’s win-
ning hand. The healed will die, the muddled mad
will slip into insanity again.
Were all his works, his signs and wonders, dead?
Then Silence whispered to his only son;
and gentle Moses spoke of God’s command;
Elijah stood beside him like the sun;
and beauty inundated all the land.
Redemption, mercy, healing would be won
with bayoneted heart and tortured hands.


…with bayoneted heart and tortured hands?
His body trembles as his spirit soars.
Whatever happens, fondness for his friends
will shape his prayer within his Father’s court.
And that surpasses bounds as every man’s
concern impales his heart, a stabbing sword
of brotherly affection. When Martha sends
him news – the death of Lazarus -- the word
invites his final test. He must go down
to save a life by giving one. The hour
has come. His sullen enemies abound
in Bethany, already they have scoured
the neighborhood to run him to the ground
as silence beckons him to Zion's tower.


As silence beckons him to Zion’s tower
the masses find relief in something true;
they open wide the narrow gate to shower
hosannas down upon his head, and “You
are seated on Israel’s praise, your bower
is silver and the finest gold.” But few
can dare imagine that a final hour
of fearful blessing looms, for something new
will smash even mantic madman rants;
the wicked with the righteous will collude
inspiring deadly blooms where desert plants
have failed. They cease their prehistoric feud
with precious harmonies and soulful cants.
For peace must pitch his tent with Adam’s brood.


For Peace must pitch his tent with Adam’s brood
apparently to settle old accounts;
and some believe his pleasure will include
a pound of flesh for every precious ounce
of blood was spilt. God’s foolishness eludes
more clever schemes, they always pounce
on tenderness. Their vanities preclude
enormity that steps beyond all bounds.
So when he shares a meal of honest bread
and common wine, a homely rite of meek
simplicity, and comrades plunge ahead,
consuming unawares the flesh that seeks
atonement for the living and the dead,
A singularity of silence speaks.

Seven Joyful Mysteries

THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION

A singularity of silence speaks
in emptiness of time, creates a void
of wholesome longing, a need which ever seeks
to know its source. It molds a gynaecoid 
receptacle worthy of itself,
so deep as to unbearable, so kind
as to commodious, a deepless well
in which infinity of good can find
untainted welcome formed by human need.
Before her breathing or the beating of her heart,
before the history of sin can plant its seed
a silent movement flowing through unchart-
ed depths selects this girl to know and sing
of all the prayers of every living thing.

THE ANNUNCIATION
Of all the prayers of every living thing
from Adam’s sob to Zechariah’s song
the sighing of the breaking morning’s breeze
and midnight’s weeping of a murdered wrong,
alone upon the earth her prayer was heard.
For every other plea pled for itself
and begged of God a sympathetic word
a ransom, healing or sufficient wealth.
But she alone prayed thy kingdom come
and let my people go her daily prayer.
Her constant watch and heartbeat’s steady drum, 
an irresistibly seductive peer-
ing to the reaches of infinity:
enticed thy grace to her fecundity.

THE VISITATION
Enticed, thy grace to her fecundity
discovered unexpected mother lodes
of courage in this woman-child. With glee
she braved the roads and disapproving scolds,
exploring fearlessly the angel’s bond.
She meant to witness in her cousin’s room
the wind-blown benefit so far beyond 
ancestral hopes, now seen in barren womb.
As ancient Betty hailed the queen of light
beneath the searching eyes of Roman rod 
and Mary sang the failure of the night,
the solstice child saluted solstice God.
No power of earth supposed what these four knew,
the Providence that loves the least is true. 

JESUS IS  BORN IN BETHLEHEM
The Providence that loves the least is true
especially to dwellers by the edge
where goods are scarce and services are few.
They wait upon the heads of state who pledge
to honor every sacrifice the poor
can make to keep the powerful in might;
but in their hearts they know they must endure
the claims of arrogance until the night
sky splits apart and angels sing of joy
beyond imagining. When heaven’s splend-
or floods the darkened plain and baby boy
lies swaddled in a cote they will attend
the one whose holy name, Messiah-Lord,
will calm discord and shatter every sword.

THE PRESENTATION IN THE TEMPLE

Will calm discord and shatter every sword
when forty days have passed, and Mary brings
her first-born to the temple? Will doddering hoard
of creeds dissolve and welcome infant things
to purify a world of stony hearts? 
An ancient seer snatched the infant from
the maid amazed and wept, “My life departs,
O Holy God, and now I must succumb
before the one whose coming was foretold.”
The widowed prophet Anna came upon
the company and saw her life unfold.
They sang to Zion’s anawim this song,
As Eli welcomed Hannah’s Samuél,
We bless thee God and greet Emmanuél. 

THE WORSHIP OF THE MAGI
We bless thee God and greet Emmanuél
Mysterious strangers whisper to the child.
The evening gloom hears joyous sobs wel-
ling up, but now they speak of rumors wild
that sweep Jerusalem, and hearings with
the priests and Levites and King Herod's court,
how churlish mobs recall the ancient myth 
of God's Messiah. Heeding their report,
and troubled by the fatal scent of myrrh
portending death to Rachel’s little ones,
Joseph startles up the night with her
his fainting wife and nursing babe; he runs
for Africa. But angels overhead
his every step protect where he is led. 

MARY AND JOSEPH DISCOVER JESUS IN THE TEMPLE
His every step protect where he is led,
but even angels marvel at his ways.
The joy of social gathering, he’ll shed
companionship to walk off in a daze
of absent-minded thoughtfulness; and yet
attentive, often wrapped in wonder at
the flight of bugs, the squirm of worms, the fret
of neighbors for their kin. In awe he sat
with elders, asking of God’s word, as he
the Word Made Flesh, opened visions for
their eyes. This twelve-years boy can see
the deep dimensions of the law and soar
beyond the fated year of seventy weeks --
A singularity of silence speaks.

The Brotherhood

A member of this fellowship, I find
The hope that stirs in me belongs to us.
I know full well the urging of my lust
And yet retain an easy state of mind.
Among these holy men we’re all one kind.
We feel both movements of the flesh and gusts
Of Holy Spirit’s mixing all the dust
And mud of earth in living water signed.
How can I fear that God will not be kind
To all my foolishness? The stubborn rust
Of sin he scrapes with fellowship, and I must
Only give my life to ties that bind
Me in a company of living men
Whom I regard as kin. They call me Ken.

Her Auburn Hair

Her auburn hair descended like a cloud,
A golden iconóstasis to shroud
The touch of trembling lips upon his feet.
Her tears like rivers stained with nard and myrrh
Washed the calloused soles and horny nails.
Her sister Martha stricken like a stele

Of salt in fear, a bewildered stele
She sees without seeing, eyes clouded
By memories of foolishness, but nails
Had ripped her dreams of late, and pallid shrouds.
Aromas of her kitchen smelt of myrrh
A taint of death, disease and rotting feet.

The prophet felt the kisses on his feet,
The hot salt tears. They spoke of knives of steel
In local villages, an ominous murmur
That trailed the hero’s path, a dusty cloud
Of discontent. Beneath her auburn shroud
Of grief the woman prophet’s lacquered nails

Unconsciously portended savage nails
Which soon would stab the prophet’s hands and feet.
No brilliant canopy of light would shroud
Him from the glares as passing strangers steal
His nakedness. O’erhead the passing clouds
Like senseless grazing cows will neither murmur

Thoughts upon his plight nor smell the myrrh
And aloes of his tomb. But slugs and snails
of darkness drawn by putrefaction's clouds
and fumes will be the first to witness feet
Transfigured as the God of All steals
Into the corpse. A sudden shroud

Of glory lifts like sails aloft on shrouds
Of grace. The quaking earth and seas demur
With loud objections as the Son’s Day steals
Across the land. His hands retain the nails
of pain and ghastly wounds still mark his feet
but glory rising radiates the clouds.

The dewy clouds of morning bless the feet
Of woman-prophet bearing myrrh. The shroud
And nails remain with useless swords and steel.

Judas Iscariot

Mary took a liter of costly perfumed oil made from genuine aromatic nard and anointed the feet of Jesus and dried them with her hair; the house was filled with the fragrance of the oil. Then Judas the Iscariot, one (of) his disciples, and the one who would betray him, said, "Why was this oil not sold for three hundred days' wages and given to the poor?" He said this not because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief and held the money bag and used to steal the contributions. So Jesus said, "Leave her alone. Let her keep this for the day of my burial.
John 12:3-7


The house in mordant stench of sudden death
Fell silent as the woman kissed his royal
Feet I could not bear her body’s love
Her carnal show of sobbing fiery passion
A weeping play of woman-purity
And face to floor her hair like holiness

Descending like a cloud of holiness
Upon his feet as if the knell of death
Had sounded through her purity
And stirred up this unseemly show a royal
Waste it seemed to me a foolish passion
Of bestial need and imbecilic love

And yet he gazed on her with manly love
A smile making mock of holiness
Betraying as I always knew his passion
For the lovely girls who’d suffer death
Before the splendor of his royal
Glance I wanted in my hands her purity

You say I lusted but her purity
Aroused in me a longing for such love
I would surrender any royalty
Despite his proof of godlike holiness
And I'd pursue into the jaws of death
A woman who would stir me to such passion

Despising righteousness he shuns the passion
I can offer him and turns to purity
Of virgin girls inhales the scent of death
Delights in smelling sinful woman’s love
Extemporizes on her fallen holiness
And vows to raise her up in royalty

He’ll have his throne too soon his royalty
Will reek with fumes of grief in a passion
Of disgrace her rancid holiness
Will stink like myrrh and her purity
Will putrefy with fetid love
This fatal woman soon will mourn his death

I owned his death despite his royalty
Her fevered love was true her passion
Holiness I lusted purity

to Mary of Bethany, Lady Chastity II

Sit here quietly I pray
I offer you my hand
I know you will prefer to stay
To company this man

I offered you my hand
As more to follow than to guide
To company this man
Simply biding at his side

I neither follow nor can guide
Without the touch of flesh
I need to stay here by your side
In quest like Gilgamesh

Bereft the touch of flesh
Of carnal Enkidu his friend,
The pious Gilgamesh
Would even deities offend

With Enkidu, his mortal friend
He wrestled night and day
And even deities forfend
To mediate their fray

They wrestled night and day
Till loathing morphed to amity
Immediate their fray
Resolved intense affinity

And loathing morphed to amity
And coped with earthy lust
Resolved intense affinities
Found goodness in the dust.

You coped with earthy lust,
Your tender hands to hold and bind
Find goodness in my dust
And heal the jaded eyes gone blind.

You tender hands to hold and bind
And soothing touch my face
They heal the jaded eyes gone blind
I look upon your grace

And soothing touch your face.
I know I must prefer to stay
And look upon your grace.
Sit here quietly you pray.

Pygmalion

Startled when a living eye appeared
To gaze beneath the polished marble stone
I stood enthralled, astonished. Then I feared
My eager tools might ravage facial bone
Or sacred flesh within the supple layered
Features of this rock. The monotone
Of day in day out prayer had persevered
On God who said this unsexed haggard crone,
My stony privacy, should yield to grace,
A muse called Chastity. Her gentle smile
Should bring me comfort still. And now a face
Of neither cynicism nor of guile
Accompanies my solitude; and eyes
Aglow with blessings solace yestersighs.

She knelt down next to me

She knelt down next to me in a church one day,
A gothic structure old with ancient prayers
And spectral traces of forgotten cares.
I had withdrawn into a quiet bay
As much to hide as seek some other way
To pacify the troubling, awful flares
Of envy, lust and rage, the anxious fears
And passionate desires that seemed to crave
Attention night and day. I might allay
These fierce emotions and climb the stairs
Of quiet piety beyond the glares
Of my own righteousness if she would stay
A while and add a prayer to my Amen….
I thought. I never laid eyes on her again. 

Mail Order Bride

I went down to the post office one day
A few years ago and the postmaster
Said you Ken Bartsch that's me yessir I said
Well something here special delivery
Great I said Christmas in July although 
It wasn't July and I wasn’t expecting
 
Anything waited a while expecting
A parcel or box of some sort the day
Grew long I wasn’t in any hurry though
Cause I was pretty much my own master
A woman asked special delivery
Yes ma’am I been waiting a while I said
 
She smiled real nice and here I am she said
Well I thought cute but I’m not expecting
A woman right now I’ve been delivered
Enough problems already for one day
I’d like to hear again what the master
Says then go about my business though
 
I’m frankly not yet sure what that is though
When it comes I’ll know it and then she said
I’m it your mail order bride the Master
Sent with a message you’re not expecting
And didn’t especially want but the day
Of sunshine comes when you’re delivered
 
So now I'm sent special delivery
Your own best friend as a blessed sign though
Mostly unwelcome and this is the day
The Lord has made that’s well and good I said
I’ve been waiting a long time expecting
Some encouraging word from the master
 
But you see I don't hear from the master
And that's okay since he troubled to deliver
Me I have settled down and don't expect
Surprises she cried out surprise although
You didn’t ask for me I’m here wow I said
But I didn’t know she was my lucky day
  
The master sent Chastity special delivery
And as she said the sunshine of my day
Though I expected something different

to Mary of Bethany, Lady Chastity I

I should not start my letter with that word
Especially as I think of whom you love
Entirely and forever your preferred,
A man, another lover, far above
 
Especially as I think of whom I love
Commanding with a beauty unsurpassed,
A man, an able comrade, far above
My simple needs and longings all amassed
 
Commanding with a beauty far surpassed
They want to shine like stars in darkest night,
My simple needs and longings all amassed
But rising to that sky’s ascending height
 
He sparkles better than the stars of night
As you sit listening wondering at his feet
While rising to that sky ascending height
And can I dare to hope that you would meet
 
As you sit listening wondering at his feet
With one whose needs are greater than his charm?
And yet I dare to hope that you will meet
In quiet conversation to disarm
 
The one whose needs are greater than his charm
My common sin, I covet someone’s wife
And hope by conversation to disarm
Although I know the end is endless strife 

My hidden sin, I crave another’s wife
I see in her an answer to my dreams
Although I know their end is endless strife
A tangled rat’s nest maze of stupid schemes

I see in her an answer to my dreams
My longing and my heartaches all fulfilled
A love’s nest vision glazed in harmless schemes
Where wanton passions finally are stilled

My longing and my heartaches all fulfilled
Until the dies irae dies illa
Of wanton passions finally is chilled
And I am found in alien boudoir

When the dies irae dies illa
Exposes me for playing such a fool
And when I’m found in alien boudoir
Amid the blushes of her reticule

Exposed to all for playing such a fool
I cannot answer or explain my case
Amid the brushes of their ridicule
For I have sworn to be forever chaste

I cannot answer or explain my case
When language knows no sexualizing needs
And I have sworn to be forever chaste
Of thoughts words and forbidden deeds

Where language knows no sexualizing needs
What explanations can I hope to give
Of thoughts words or forbidden deeds
Within the scope of my life’s narrative

What explanations should I try to give
To Chastity who dwells in spirit pure
Within the pages of my narrative?
Your soulful gaze on him suggests allure 

To one who hoped to live in spirit pure.
I’ll bring a troubled past before your eyes.
Your soulful gaze on him presents a lure 
To follow him who keeps you as his prize

He knew my troubled past before his eyes
Came down to rest upon your lovely face 
You followed him who kept you as his prize
And I could only follow in my place

And learn to walk before his dazzling face
Entirely and forever my preferred,
Because I have to follow in my place
I shall not start my letter with that word.

Jeremiah

When I found your words, I devoured them;
They became my joy and the happiness of my heart,
 Jeremiah 15:16

You didn’t set out to be alone
But arriving there
You found annoyed and paranoid 
Convictions
That someone anyone no one
Meant to hurt you
Including the Big Guy Himself
Who’d called you aside
In the first place
But left you standing
In the middle of nowhere
With an angry crowd
Closing in.
So why did it have to be you?
You didn’t want the notoriety,
But you loved the attention of God Almighty
And you thought it wouldn’t cost you? 
You should understand 
Or have figured out by now
The one who stands alone --
The so-called individual --
Stands in public scrutiny
Saying things no one understands
From some mysterious place
Where no one lives.
You must suffer carping criticism
And eccentric accusations 
Because you have stepped into
An airless vacuum of
Intergalactic space where nothing breathes
And no life flourishes. 
When you speak no one listens
For there is no sound in the emptiness between us. 
Silence spoke to you;
And you like a fool
Dared to open your mouth
For no other reason than you could not
Contain the word of horror/beauty, 
Intense and passionate truth
That gleamed blearily through your city’s polluted skies
And sounded foggily in cockcrow congregations
Who had not yet their morning coffee
And didn’t much care what their songs might mean.
You spoke with acid voiced accuracy
From your own peculiar heart a killing word.
How dare you? 
And now you want my sympathy? Forget it. 
Your solace must be the silence
Of a dead zone in your heart
Where kernels of thought
Perish in airless dessication.  
The ignorant sky will suck your final breath
And on some distant day it might
Remember your name
And tell your story
And claim you for its own. 

Approaching sixty

I should be slowing down a bit,
Not chewing up the miles;
But my knee feels great out here
Climbing hills;
Eyes focused on the road ahead
Body weighted evenly above the pedals
A fluid, economic motion.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a bicycle.
Why so painful climbing stairs?
No body’s perfect,
My yogi says,
You do what you can.
Each day I learn to stand on one leg,
Eyes pinned to my right mirror’s eye
Toes cannot grip the flattened matt
But strain, relax, search, find, and lose
The centered gravity in the gut
Above my foot.
A body in motion
Adjusts with each breath,
Parturient in part
And poised in process.

The Catfish

Exploring the depths of Barren River
With a silver spoon, a hook and line
I searched and waited a shining sign
A tremor or quake, a glance or shiver
Of life beneath the silver plane;
When action struck and a lively cat
Took up my spoon and a fierce combat.
We struggled awhile on edge to gain
Until she lay on the floor of my boat.
I called my closest friends to say
Of my good luck, O what a day!
But my big chance to boast and gloat
Arrived on the day of their first grandson.
My poor catfish! I guess they won!

A Letter to Emily Gould

What a briny prickle you’ve created of yourself!
It’s a sorry tale I’ve read from you, your life upon a shelf
Of public scrutiny. Where will you go from here?

Might you remember Rostov’s charging the French Army,
His sudden realization that I mean no harm,
My friends love me;
My family would be sorely grieved
I am a really nice person;
So why are they shooting blazing guns at me?
My God I’m like to die!
Retreat! Retreat!
And yet they called him a hero, fool that he was,
And he was never quite the same,
A wiser man, and somewhat more sedate.

It’s time to quit Emily.
Quit being Emily.
Perhaps you think I’ve not been you
And should say nothing.
Yes, I should say nothing.
I’ve said nothing to you
Because you don’t exist, Emily,
You’ve lost it.
You wanted fearless adventure,
Free love and
Faceless friendship;
Virtual reality and no real virtue.
They’re oxymora, Emily.
Like you they don’t exist.

Go away now,
Retreat to no place
Where no one sees
And no one cares.
It’s a nice place actually,
Restful to a point,
Healing.
Give it up Emily.
Quit trying,
Quit trying not to try,
Quit quitting.
hush

Now just breathe
for a while.
breathe.

Notice if you will
The emptiness within
A chest of emptiness.
A space, a place
Where nothing is
Within your chest
Beneath, behind
Unnoticed breasts
Close by an anxious heart,
That fills with nothing
More than life
And just as quickly
Empties of itself.
It’s yours, it’s you,
That space where nothing is.
Do not notice now
The fullness of all living things,
Their panting, gasping, respirating
Breath;
The flow of waters over gills
The leaves of porous trees
The crawling worms
And creeping bugs
And microscopic things
Within this microscopic sphere
Of life on earth.
Do not notice your
Communion with silent earthlings
In an envelope of air.
but hush
you don’t exist
you are not here.
When you arrive
You’re welcome.

Father's Day

Let me sing about myself, or rather
Let me tell you something of my father.
He was a good man, first of all, the best
In numberless ways, from Portland, the west
End of Louisville. A worker by day,
And husband/father by night, my stay-
At-home mother’s best friend; and disciplined
To work and duty, faithful to church, deepened
By hard military experience,
A Marine, not given to prurience
But not without humor either. Unschooled
Like men of his time, wise and rarely fooled
By salesmen or shop girls. I will not disclose
His shortcomings. Allow me to keep them close
To my own heart for once, and not to speak
Of his secrets. What were the highest, the peak
Moments of his brief life? Perhaps my mother
Knew them. She admired the man, her other
Half, as they used to say. When he died at
Fifty-five, my life abruptly stopped. I sat
In a psychiatric hospital for
Six weeks, or paced its hard terrazzo floor,
Wondering how I got there and where should
I go from there. My greatest fear – he could
See me now, wherever I turned. Whatever
I did he oversaw. I could not sever
His spirit from me; it was many a year
Before I knew there was nothing to fear
From his knowing or his omnipresence;
Nor should I have been awed by his radiance.
My burden was to live with his good name,
To honor his memory, and hide the shame
That clogged my thinking. I often recall
Hamlet, "He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.”

Half a lifetime later, I miss the man.
He is still my hero, judge and standard
Although I am today less enamored
By his Greatest Generation code.
If my biography were named an ode
To my father’s decency, then I should
Think my life well-lived. He fathered a good
Man – myself – and nine others. Now let him
Rest and add his voice to angelic hymns.

I set out some time ago to tell
You of myself, but soon distracted, fell
Into an abyss of reminiscence
On my father, an icon, a god since
My earliest life. That’s enough for now;
I’ve said already more than he’d allow.

Alien Encounter

You greet my deities with disgust
My gods and fears are strange to you
They cannot charm or be discussed

If I’ve found ways to tame my lust
And loathsome habits now eschew
You greet my deities with disgust

My gods have ways you call unjust
Their famous mercies all too few
They cannot charm or be discussed

Before your votive lights a bust
Siddhartha, Christ, or Lao Tzu
They greet my deities with disgust

Their ears are stone, their eyes have dust
Their aging skin a sickening hew
They cannot charm or be discussed

Between us grows a hardened crust
There’s nothing fresh and nothing new
You greet my deities with disgust
They cannot charm or be discussed.

Horror and Humor

Horror and Humor
In the world of entertainment
Are sisters.
It’s all they can do,
The implausible monsters,
To keep a straight face.
Damsels in distress
Screaming their tonsils out,
Laugh hysterically between shots.

Elsewhere Horror and Humor
Never speak to one another;
They live on separate planets.
There’s really nothing funny
About hunger, rape, or ravaging armies.

Sexuality often joins her sister Humor,
They live and work together,
Share picnics and family fun,
Office parties and vacations;
But they never pray.
Nor do they meet in church
With Sister Faith.
She goes alone.
Men and women may laugh
With delight at their nakedness,
Its touch and sight and smell,
But there’s no kiss and tell in church.
If Adam finds no suitable partner
In his menagerie
his straight man –
God –
Doesn’t laugh knowingly.
Nor does the congregation.

But Sex and Horror tryst
And not only in slasher films.
Children defiled try to sort out
The sordid, tangled strands
Of love, anger, hate, affection, loathing, fear.
Adults too renounce affection
When they find it in bed
With Force
Coiled like a snake around its waist.
We wait for peace to no avail;
For a time of healing, but terror comes instead.

Speaking of which:
I notice Faith is often unwelcome.
Mine is pretty silly --
All that praising and thanking --
And the groveling.
I wish I didn’t grovel.
It lacks dignity.

Thanks for bearing with my religion;
I’ll try not to pray too long.
I know it’s tiresome.
It’s just the attempt
To speak the unspeakable
Explain the inexplicable
Unscrew the inscrutable
Unleashes a barrage
Of words and they keep coming.
“INCOMING!”
Perhaps it’s more like a deluge.
“MAN THE BILGE PUMPS!
HERE IT COMES AGAIN!”
Sometimes ideas flow too,
Incoherently.
I see connections everywhere.

The crucifixion, for instance,
Horror or humor?
Wasn’t his rout of the demons pretty damned funny?
Didn’t you laugh at their bare
Butts disappearing in the distance?
Weren’t you glad at your relief?
You find no humor at all
When you recall your fears and doubt?

How many times did he tell you
Be not afraid?
But you feared and now
You realize how groundless
Were your fears.
God was always in charge,
If only you had believed.

But it was horrible too.

A man’s dying on the cross –
What is beautiful about that?
How can you say,
“What a beautiful crucifix over the altar?”
It’s horrible.
But not half so grisly as
The man’s body stretched
By uplifting nails
And the downward dead-weight
Yank of gravity;
His flayed flesh;
Yellow, brown, red filth
Streaming from every orifice,
Shoulders, elbows, arms unjointed,
Head upside-down
Hanging helpless heavy.
The stench alone was unbearable.
The crowds jeered, of course.
What else could they do?
The sight of his bestial nature
Stripped them of human decency.

There is no comedy there.
Is it decent to remember
Or imagine
Or describe?
Is it better left unsaid?
If you dare you will find
Even sexual abuse in this
Passion Narrative –
His nakedness, the taunts and jeers,
The leering eyes of strangers,
And his helplessness.
What did they feel in their loins,
What stimulant,
As they stripped, tortured, nailed
And raised him up?

But we will laugh on Sunday
Tears streaming from our eyes
As we hear the good news.
Free at last, free at last,
Thank God Almighty I am free at last.

There is healing in his wings
Even for children.
Love and truth will meet;
Justice and peace will kiss.
The wolf shall be guest of the lamb,
And the leopard lie down with the kid;
Horror and Humor will sport together
As Faith and Sex slap hands. 

Riff on a Nightmare

...O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low….
from Ode to the West Wind, Percy Bysshe Shelley

 
fleeing an army
in hiding eating uncooked 
fish their defleshed bones.

in a muddy ditch
enemies pass over head
fish their unfleshed bones

eating fish their bones
unfleshed in muddy ditches
skeleton uncooked

armies of night fear
now dread passing overhead
their bones unfleshed fish

overheard armies
fish for me and unfleshed bones
in a muddy ditch

fish hover overhead 
armies forage passed ditches
cartoon skeletons

 
fish eyes stare exes
inked in cartoon skeletons 
as armies forage

bony skeletons
ditches of dead eyed fishes 
foraging armies

armies search the night
in muddy ditches hiding
eating fish-eyed bones

armies search and find
in a child’s cartooned nightmares 
his skeletoned bones 

armies overheard
forage for eyeless fishes
in dreamscape ditches

fish bone pattern leaves
displayed in windblown ditches 
splay like skeletons 

The Lord Ascends

The Lord ascends to shouts of joy,
A blare of trumpets for the child
Whose coming the powers-that-be annoys;
He’s far too pleasant, far too mild

And trumpets blaring for the child
Will shatter windows, tumble walls
As pleasant springtime airs and mild
Invade our cubicles and stalls

Reopen shuttered airless halls
To free our mind and open eyes
The silly cubicles and stalls
That tried so hard to hide our lies,

To keep our minds and blind our eyes
Evaporate before the boy
Who tries the harshest, hidden lies
And dumps them like discarded toys.

Elaborate before the boy
The nation's proud display their deeds;
He dumps them like discarded toys
He turns instead to find the seeds

The nations' proud despised as weeds
His father planted years ago
He means to find and tend the needs
Of all who suffer lives of woe.

His father planted years ago
A garden rich with all delight
And those who suffer lives of woe
Will never need to take to flight

From gardens rich with all delight.
The powers-that-were no more annoy
And humble folks need not take flight
As God descends to shouts of joy.

We will come and dwell

When I came and saw your home in Nazareth,
Where your dear mother lived by Joseph’s grave
In tranquil prosperity since his death,

I wondered why you would not choose to save
And guard this unexpected paradise.
It seemed so foolish to ignore the certain waves

Of politics and war, poverty and ice
And drought and parching heat that always rise
Despite our rosy schemes. No plans suffice

To guarantee security. Despise-
ing all precaution you abandoned kith
and kin and village to evangelize

an ancient world, already tainted with
the proffered blood of human sacrifice.
Could your bold retelling ancient myths

Persuade your co-religionists to splice
New ideas to prehistoric ways?
Often did you tangle with teachers of precise

Traditions, laws, and customs, but unfazed
Every man “went unto his own abode”
and no one saw the ending of his day.

The way you looked at me, I felt my load
of worries lightened on my back. I had
to drop everything and follow on the road,

because -- if for no other reason -- you bade
me come and see. Where this would lead I dared
not guess. A sudden, baffling urge -- so glad

My heart felt reassured I could be spared --
Set me toward an Eden far away
You called your home. You said your Father cared

And whatsoever we want, we need but pray,
And God will answer you. But I want more
Than I would dare to ask. Should I just lay

My common concerns at your most holy door?
Remembering that you harrowed the pits of hell
And sprang from death to life to give us more

Than we could ever dream, I am prepared to sell
My soul with everything on earth, for well
I’ve heard you say “With you we’ll come and dwell.”