XXVI.

Somebody might ask, 'Why do you write

of pines and peaks and flowering things,

is not man the crowning of creation, framed

in the image of God?' "Yes," I admit but

I struggle to believe and my heart is oft troubled, troubled indeed.

XXVII.

The song of the world is jealousy couched as justice and liberty a guise for dominion.

O, Grant us not only justice, great judge, but mercy also, though we deserve it not. Bear us up on wings of liberty crowned with selflessness. Open our eyes that we might see the peace and promise of both.

XXV.

Of the North we knew but little,

only the scant recollections and gleanings

won of observation: the rush of leaves, the pale arc of the moon, the chill of the evening.

Perceiving much, we understood yet fragments, as little as we knew of ourselves.

With half-intentions skittering around the corners of our minds we walked on,

our hopes and prayers and dreams

borne endlessly upward towards the quickening sky; our restless feet plodding on

beneath the silhouettes of phantom limbs.

Firstlove

Return, my dear, to your first love

Let not your heart grow cold

Remember the fervor of youth;

Your salvation of old.

Love of the world grows thick on you

comforts subtle and sly

Stand! Lest you these trifles pursue

and you grow dim of eye.

How will you stand when none surround,

none but the eyes of God?

When no Joshua cheers beside:

"Courage man, be on guard?"

Let no gauzy nostalgic thought

steal the call of this day.

The Spirit calls perpetually.

Take caution lest you stray.

Pray the blistering winter winds

make tepid not your soul.

Thaw anew this twice-frozen heart

and from you take control.

Quench not your thirst for holy word

with boredom or deceit

but with patience in sacred space

with zeal and passion meet.

Ready your wick with steady hand

stray not your dogged gaze

whether it near or far do not

ignore these waning days.

Fill your lungs with the richest fare

savor grace undeserved---

breath and the blessed peace of God

and find yourself preserved.

XIV.

my friends are getting cancer

and while I pray for healing

against this fleeting advance of decay,

I pray to burn again

in these twilight hours,

kindling passions untold;

to wake like crimson sunrise

cresting the day.

From a Spring Day

From a spring day

the smell of marine diesel

rose over the intervening lilacs.

The revving of the lethargic engine

broke the hot, illusionary silence.

From the yawning window

this acoustic and olfactory alchemy 

evaporated behind the distinct veil of sound,

the inescapable

the ubiquitous.

April 28th, 1994,

the Tigers and Royals,

similarly cursed

engaged an exercise in futility

playing

          playing,

not for crown or acclaim

but rather for the sake of a small boy

perched at a windowsill;

a boy who hears the seasons in the static,

for whom music, yes music

of faint crowd chatter 

and the muffled crack of leather on wood

ensconced in undulating hiss

would forever entice. 

Objectively: a banal narrative,

a collection of statistics,

anecdotes bordering on mundane

---and altogether disposable,

yet in such strange array

they mirror the seasons and stars,

ever-present guide to sojourners and travelers

with compass and sextant

replaced by finicky dials of the transistor radio.

They play not for the thrill of the day

but for the compounding aggregate of history,

building, as it were,

stalactites and stalagmite formations

to be observed and ruminated on by men and women,

for whom, their names would exist

as mere perfunctory labels in expanding indicies.

Yet which,

when stoked,

like smoldering coals,

would burst to vibrant life,

extolling,

          expelling,

                    expanding.

They play

as individuals

bound inextricably within the confines of providence

exercising full dominion

yet predestined

to construct some greater cathedral draped in grandeur

from which issue forth rhythms of consistency

of stability in the face of chaotic indifference.

They play,

let those who have ears to hear, hear.

Theirs is a world of ghosts,

where each patch of dirt haunts a spectral cloud of witnesses,

ever watchful.

A stark dichotomy:

each man for himself

and each man together.

Rugged individualism

and relentless tribalism

bound together with insoluble fetters.

A world of knights and pontiffs

arrayied on the shining green fields of battle.

Babe Ruth calls his shot and

Moses parts the Red Sea.

Gehrig claims to be the luckiest man alive and

Joshua tells each man to choose who he will serve.

The White Socks are banned

and Israel is taken in chains to Babylon.

each man stands,

shining in the pantheon history

like living statues bound for ever to serve as examples and cautions.

Reflecting both the exultation and the futility of mortality.

They play

Not as paragons of virtue

But prophets of permanence

And the legacies we sow

Even once our bodies pass from tissue to dust.

They play

And the heartbeat of creation beats on

Issuing it's familiar humbling tones to those willing to hear.

From windows and workplaces

They play

drawing back the curtains of indifference

Pulling down the bulwarks of cynicism.

In the heat and the cold

The day and the night

In the spring and the autumn

They play

Spinning their unpredictable narratives

Into legend and lore.

They play.

          They play.

Infirmity

Infirmity

O bitter tonic

removing dross

like refining fire;

cleansing palate and conscience

til remains only the bones of faith

hitherto only imagined.

Absence

of chaff and frivolity

living only the wriggling germ of hope

fragile and raw

yet fertile

in burgeoning soil

---a mustard seed

in stark contrast set

to flourish or fail

free of the trappings of anxiety and latent desire---

purity unmanaged;

clarity in dependence.

Here resides only life and Lord

no fitter pair to meet

in such and hour.