Envy

In what are words of praise,
Are echoes of damnation,
As eyes in furtive glance,
Betray their own vocation.
And lizardly they dart,
Glare at each elation,
And loathsome is the life,
Crushed at its creation.
Like a vampire craves warmth,
Is cold to the reflection,
Of fellowship.


The wanting never slakes,
The thirst is never quenched,
Delight devolves to malice —
In bitterness is drenched
This life, in all its days,
In sour envy entrenched.
And passively aggressive,
Smiling jaws tightly clenched,
Conceal a shrinking soul,
The tomb is buffed and blanched,
Free of fellowship.


It's brother to brother,
It's lover to lover,
It's Isaac and Ishmael,
It's Psyche and sister,
It is you.
It is I.


And only perfect love,
The love that casts out fear,
Received as sacrament,
In dread and awe draws near,
And tears our dragon hide,
'Til naked and austere,
And free to walk in light,
Be content in gentle cheer,
Nor king, nor worm, just be,
Kind, loving, and sincere,
In fellowship.

This Space

Seen, in that furtive glimpse,
A bruised and fragile dove,
That hobbles and that limps,
As one abandoned by love.
What bridge?

And again that old recoil,
A knot writhes in the soul,
The threads ever embroil,
Neither pardon, nor parole.
What may?

These were the eyes that saw,
The contours of my shadow,
In sacred gaze, in Holy awe,
A troth, a trust, to bestow.
What now?

And again, I see her shine,
Through iron neural bars,
This sacrament, this sign,
This wishing on the stars,
This space.

And grief through life and love,
The wedding and the funeral,
The bruised and fragile dove,
Both Hades and auroral,
What now may bridge this space?

Pining angelic,
Staring,
Across this space.

Bread and Wine

At a time when the time,
Of all ages distills,
When all hopes and all fears,
Now chill and stand still,
And a meal, and a prayer,
And a clash of the wills,
Meal of wheat, fruit of vine,
Mark the end of all ills,
Bread and Wine.

A dark night garden prayer,
And the falseness of friends,
The holy and the strong,
With strong arms now descend,
Without word, without blame,
A man walks to his end.
Thorns and nails, spike the skin,
Blood with mud pool and blend,
Bread and Wine.

Cry of prayer of lament,
Body slumps, drooping head,
Sky blackens in mourning,
The Man hangs broke and dead.
Tomb — a slab, and a sheet,
A long rest, a stone bed,
No! Death will not hold love
Communion rises instead.
Bread and Wine.

And the days and years since,
All beloved come to Him,
And when darkness besets,
And His light may seem dim,
This time is still the time,
To be filled to the brim,
With the food and the cup,
The songs of Seraphim,
Bread and Wine.
Body and Blood.
Death and Life.
Amen.

Autumn

And lo the melancholy sky,
Mourns the sun in smokey gray,
And as light and warmth abate,
I walk in doubt and dismay,
Mindful that my seasons too,
Ghostly pale each passing day.
Equinox fades.

As trees will weep their leaves,
In earth or fire tones of red,
Preparing for the cold assault,
In this season of dark and dread,
I bend against the frigid breeze,
And pull against the stubborn thread.
Harvest reaper.

And the skeletons of forests,
Claw the gray and pallid sky,
Tearing at the ashen cotton,
Fissures of daylight in reply,
Softly bathe the dormant world,
A twilight hope opens my eye.
Autumnal baptism.

Standing in the fading light,
Adjusting rhythms to the dying,
As the trees pause every breath,
To tenebrous times complying,
So the cold and silver luster,
Rests my spirit from the trying,
Waning peaceful.