More Faith than Flesh

alpine-forest-1

 

I toss my troubles

Down the wishing well,

Watch them until they melt into the inky black,

Bid them farewell, if only for the night,

And let myself wander the alpine forests of my youth,

Where the wax seal of time

Is still warm from the pouring,

And the swaying, golden fields of life

Have only just begun to be harvested,

Where the air is redolent with the heady scent of loam

Mixed with distant traces of sea foam;

And if a tree falls in this forest,

It won’t make a sound,

So unburdened am I

That I am more faith than flesh.

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rose-colored glasses: a poem

 

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her hands shake.

it’s not the first thing you’d notice,

but it’s the kind of habit that you begin to wonder about

when you take her hand in yours,

and she’s trembling, and you take her wine glass and

maybe she’s just a little drunk, but no,

the sun’s just rising,

and it’s just rose-colored water,

or perhaps something more sinister;

either way, you cannot help but greet the day

by pressing her up against the wall,

letting the glass fall unbidden to the floor,

and it shatters, the scent of blood thick on her breath,

but it’s only, you find, because she’s bitten her lips raw,

and, oh, she must love the taste, love it as she’ll never love you –

and you can taste that on her, too,

the way she tenses under you,

the manner in which she pulls away a second or two too soon,

and then you kneel before her, your knees scraping against the broken glass and

your blood mingles with hers and

it’s not all right and it never will be,

but maybe, just maybe,

she’ll lie with you tonight,

if only to lick the bloody tears from your eyes as you mourn

what could have been.

her hands will be steady as she wraps them ‘round your throat

and that’ll be the last thing you ever notice about her, the world, and all,

save for maybe a passing thought about how there are no stars in her eyes, now,

though you’d swear they were there, earlier.

eschatology: a poem

beam-me-up-goddy

 

(Eschatology: Noun. The theological study of the fate of the world.)

 

I am the rain that falls,
Redemptive;

I am the wind
That wearies the wanderer.

I am the silence
That befalls all sound.

Youth

dandelion-bess

 

I can think of no better metaphor

Than the glorifying sun

Yielding to the inkwell of the night

At the end of everything;

Time – such a cruel mistress –

Finally running out,

The sand in the hourglass

Surrendering the last of itself

At the journey’s end;

And, at long last, it was over.

Endings

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At the height of summer,

It’s easy to forget

That the sun also rises

On the day after you fail to,

That time still passes,

That you cannot stay forever this young,

That the stars still change

With the rotation of the Earth,

And that you still do not revolve with them.

That the moment ends,

And never comes again.

There is Light

3

 

He sits chain-smoking a six-pack of the finest cigars

He’s ever had the pleasure of smoking

Bequeathed to him upon the occasion

Of his father’s death;

One hand balancing the fat roll of tobacco against his lips

The other clutching the ashtray like a lifeline.

 

Soon, he will make the necessary telephone calls

But for now let them all arrive to the stench of burnt tobacco

And the thin shifting curls of smoke gathering like storm clouds far above

Let them know that where there is fire, there is light

Show them all he lived

If only through the ashes of the only pack of cigars

His father never smoked

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