Ears

Like heffalumps and woozles, (1)
Like a Rodin or a Picasso,
Souls afire with star dust,
Yet jesting in the side-show,
Half life.

The spirit of the dead poets,
Like oxygen flows in our veins,
Their words rooted in millennia,
Yet lost like runaway trains,
Half formed.

And the deepest sacral moments,
With a "thou" I wish to share,
And to gather the holy other,
Heart bonds to heart in prayer,
Half seen.

How be the organs of listening,
Have no root in heart nor soul?
And the words of love and pain,
Are like dust upon the scroll?
Halftone.

As the richness of all meaning,
Like pixels blowing in a breeze,
Never congeal the I and thou,
Poema unheard from bended knees,
Wandering lost,

Without ears to hear.
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1) This reference to a cartoon may seem trite here...except that I wanted to convey not only the high artistry of we as creatures of words, but also the fantastic nature of we as creatures. I may change it if it falls flat (with the 3-4 readers who may peek at this stuff anyhow).

The Sacrament of Dog

This old world so grinds me down,
The petals are strewn all about,
This place of gray and earthen brown,
My soul haunted by darkest doubt,
A quadruped angel in furry gown,
Wagging wiggler with cold-wet snout,
Sweetly graces me.

Earnest eyes with dogged regard,
And hind parts in dizzying praise,
A nuzzling kindness cancels cafard,
Friendship of presence not of phrase,
A wet kiss, catches me off guard,
Gift of contentment in these dog days,
Pebbles of Charity. (1)

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1. My dog's name is Pebbles

Blood Sky

Heed the creed of steel, of gun,
Drowns the choral mists of dawn,
While blood has called for blood,
Luna folds wings and is withdrawn,
Blood-red the auroral skies portend,
As bleeds a man with fate foregone.

Young men leap to the drums of war,
Bone's chill at their cold resolve,
Dimple cheeked youths in folded brow,
Kill. Primal souls deliberate, devolve.
State and church spurn their salvation,
Cold vengeance that none need to absolve.

And the man and his company lay bleeding,
The sword rewards this merchant of death,
Our sons plunder o'er their gasping frames,
Blood prints extend with their last breath,
The Pakistan sun still sees fit to rise,
Upon the end of this murderous Macbeth.

As the sun caught up with western skies,
The smell of blood upon the silver wind,
Jubilant songs tumult from vacuous souls,
Cold umbrage that grace could not rescind,
One hundred thousand with skeletal stare,(1)
Kin, Neighbor, God himself in deep chagrin.

And the sun,
And the clouds,
And children,
And birdsong,
Continue.



1) This is about how many people total have perished so far in American efforts in Afghanistan and Iraq. Our own 3000 fallen, though immensely tragic, is but a small percentage of cycle of killing and revenge.