To Be Certain

To be certain
I detest religious argument
finding myself a worse kind of Christian,
though an honest malcontent,
wanting that all should come to desire
to live a plane higher.
And so, late at night
my pen wrestles with characters-
the M's, R's, E's, I's, ?'s, and ;'s of thoughts,
forging into symbol the beliefs,
questions, hopes and neuroses
of a different life
taking meaning from teaching
until this story I find myself in
becomes the story in which I find myself.

Haiku 9

Spoiler rushes forth
the proud of Sodom with glee
declare: "He is down!"

The Battle Inside

Never claimed perfection
     being but a man.
The battle rages inside
     both sides have their plan.

Couldn't promise flawless;
     may be good, likely sin.
Lines blurred and crossed
     the implosion rocks within.

Not good enough,
     not what they want.
Finding out too late
     it wasn't a servant.

I've looked at life all wrong
     expecting grace returned
just because extended;
     costly lesson learned.

Countdown

Three
      Two
       Once again there
Where pain and love merge
           into One

Not Haiku

The murmur of love,
the song of a bird, can lie;
plumage bright hides truth from sight.

After All

Battleship gray at the beach
     or is it gunmetal blue?
Living with myself
     versus living alone;
Incapable of self-love,
the promise of always
proves to have been too arrogant
after all.

Were I Him

I close my eyes
     begin to pray,
tears of sorrow streak my face.
     Love ended today.

Were I him
     whom I should be
my flaws might fall
     to let you see
just what I am,
     that I am me.

So walking alone
     even shadow deserted,
heart beat slowing to allow
     pain from what I did
to swell inside, growing
     to mistrust of those around
from whom now fleeing
     my life might ground.

A Tough Season

Drawn by time
inexorably to his winter
an ancient soul, emptied of life,
bound for the sacrifice
reflecting on just how hard the fall was
now that the hour glass
has been fixed to the table;
that was not his best season.

Making mistakes
for which there is no grace,
pain threatens the heart,
the life to which it belongs,
but shows not on his face.

Competing theories abound,
who's right, who is wrong,
now passing as ships in the night.

Haiku 8

Strange, and fearful sight;
her lips move, and speaking not
of descending sun.

Sometimes

Sometimes in the morning

I catch a falling dream

streak across my screen

and I think about a someone

that I will never see again

and now it's only me again.

Sometimes in the morning

I think I hear a phrase

drifting through the haze

from just out of sight

something that she said one night

before we went to bed one night.

Sometimes in the morning

I go back to sleep

trying hard to keep

my memories so deep

wishing she were near

whispering in my ear,

My Love.

A Little Bit of Rain

So I'll tell you how I am in poems.

Sorry they are so late and so few.

I guess I am much better.

My complaints?  There's nothing new.

And all those things I told you?

They're still true.

I wish I could have seen it through.

Are all those things you told me once, too?

As you request, I leave you.

Try to remember the good times;

     warm days filled with sunshine

          and just a little bit of rain.

And if you look back

try to forget the bad times;

     lonely, blue and sad times

          with just a little bit of pain.

And when I look back

I'll just remember good times;

     warm days and sunshine

          and just a little bit of rain.

Haiku 7

wasted so much time
fronted by another twist
living takes too long

An Image

Created in Our image

     yet incomplete by design,

     unfulfilled in monadic self

     in need of suitable help;

this being my story

     do I get to choose which part

     is His mirror?

Intelligence safely ruled out

     to ponder conscience,

     or consciousness

     perplexes-

the resonant need for connection,

     with God, with creation,

     with humanity

     (having a sexual identity that is good).

This being my story,

     fallible and failing

     striving and succeeding

     real and imperfect;

a sculpture capable of pointing

     awe-inspired

     to the Sculptor.

Tonights' Prayer

This hairless primate

     small twig on a small branch

          of the tree of life

Living meat with a three pound brain

     suspended by bone, packaged in skin,

          born naked and crying and afraid,

Maybe destined to die the same

and in-between self-impressed

     self-absorbed beyond all reason

only on occasion slightly awake

     to my smallness and frailty

          and dignity and wonder

while seeking to be so right

     that all else becomes reason for suspicion

and prayer seems unanswered

     by a god of contradiction -

No.  He is constant.

He loves whom He loves

     and hates what He hates.

And in that assurance I am elevated

     in my omissions and commission's;

Surrender does elevate.

Ocarina

Where love is played as a single note

become but that moment before

it is again required

it's absence leaves a tiny tear.

But in ranges of fives and sevens and nines

to blanket those odd movements

where only true love can cover a wound

the simple ocarina's tune

may swell and grow to symphony

where groan of breaking heart

here tied by fetter's clank

do blend to but a note.

And once begun to play this song

there is no turning back.

The Story Begins

(Part 1)

Let me present to you this boy

demanding answers at sixteen

pride coursing his veins as poison

nonplussed by this noose

for his apprentice neck.

Possessed of a great key

and seeking the lock it opens,

mumbling his confidence

while barking his guttural laugh

and wondering why

the world seems passing him by.

This man at thirty-six

suspect of past certainties

mis-steps forth anew

convinced he's meant to live

beyond himself (still that boy inside the man)

able to walk without watching his step

to talk without thought

to reach, having little to offer

to love, knowing no other way.

Sadness

Still and solemn stars assemble

     coaxed from daylight,

a lighted altar

     in unfirm firmament

to preside over shadows stretching
     to capture young flowers

          blushing of  whispered love.

The young, and poets

     have lingered here before

          staid in the knowledge

               these glories soon will be no more.

Lingering and sad, I sigh

     at thoughts of spirit born to shine

a watcher of night skies

those thoughts of joy and love

     come back again no more to me

          returning as did the dove

               naught in its beak, empty.