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.

XXII

I met a toad along the path,
wet and glistening from the rain,
he gave to me a sideways glance
and I to him the same.

He bore no quarrels, toil, or strife
but the sundries of the day
and with a sly, contented eye, he shrugged
and quickly sped away.

She Speaks in Whispers

She speaks in whispers,

low and sweet,

a melodic whistling through the trees.

She sings in violence,

-thrashing cry,

harsh and bitter, tempestuous breeze.

My lover strips the

mountains bare

and drives what there dwells away, away,

yet stirs she the bough

'neath autumn's 

rays to swirl the leaf to rain, to rain.

"Fickle bride," some say,

"Why should you

wed yourself to this chaotic child?"

"Alas, I confess,

I cannot

bear the thought of a love more plain but mild."

So I bear her scars,

fury bound,

and bear torment the best that I can,

but bask in beauty

as ocean

driven hard by current meets the land.

There is no sunset

sweeter than

the one that emerges from the rain

so I'll gaze at cloudless night,

stars above,

forbearing touch of a moment's pain.

In alpine fields her

kisses sweet

fall lightly upon the meadow fair

I will not depart

this holy

place but dwell within forever there.

XXI

To watch the sun rise over the escarpment

invokes some primeval victory

of light over the shadowy depth of stone and gloom;

of beauty over the infernal forces of degradation and entropy.

Too easy it would be

to embrace the perpetual binding and rending

as all there is

or ever will be,

but hope, like earth, stirs,

outlasting the bitter construct of destruction and melee

promise beats still within the bosom of the earth

-a bastion of redemption birthed out of the bitter dregs of despair.

Long in coming, creeping

like the great glaciers that sculpted the land

-the fingertips of God,

ponderous yet unrelenting; unyielding,

weaving in providential array

a gorgeous tapestry into which suffering and wavering

are but mere strands of contrast among oceans of color.

We witness it now-

this divine topography

these peaks and valleys

bearing the scars of flame and flood

yet unfolding over the land a vast panorama 

made richer and fuller in the breaking

through which rivers course like veins

unseen, yielding verdant beauty.

So we dread not the moment but in its passing

welcome the persistent spark

-the coals unstoked yet simmering.

We stand boldly on the cusp of eternity

in hearty defiance of despair

fretting not the cacophony but in its chaos

recognizing the strains of sovereignty.

We bear harsh discipline

but lament not the whirlwind for its sake

but relish the fresh shoots in the absence, 

the fauna that graze,

and the cry of the hawk echoing above,

unburdened and unadulterated,

freely greeting the burgeoning dawn in joy. 

XX.

It was worth the trip to feel so close;
to bid farewell the dusk.
It was worth the fears to embrace the gloaming;
to watch the sky explode in blush.
The merest pittance paid to trace the moon's ascent
reflected in the river's gleam;
to revel in the tranquil hour
beneath the boisterous passing skein.
Not that I could earn or buy
the meanest hour of that inspiring scene
but I will bear burdens untold
to witness anew that sylvan dream.