Monthly Archives: October 2017

Mammon’s Winter

All night diner, south of the river, silent flurries lurid in neon.

Joan runs her fingers through her buzzed head, bleary, tired.

Winter is here, demons loud in the quiet, in the still darkness.

A couple of cigarettes in the pack, the stress pushes for more.

The black coffee is piping hot, bitter, and flushes her cold cheeks.

Cigarettes and coffee, keep her fighting, pleasures robbing the sun.

Mammon stole the faithful, and the hot dry smoke is soothing,

as that war grinds on and on and on. Coffee tender in it’s harshness.

Winter is here, and she has not done enough; Mammon’s feelers on her.

The waitress, grandmotherly and kind, always asking after Joan,

brings ketchup and scrambled eggs, pats Joan’s hand on the table.

This is God and devotion, so simple, so freely given, so tireless in the cold.

Simple meal, vinegary topping, cigarette finished, fresh coffee in porcelain cup.

Body can touch the holy, can escape the dust, even in these corporal pleasures.

Mammon’s winter threatens God’s creation, and in prayer, in the streets, she must stand.

Advertisements

Buzzcut

Buzzcut, short spiky brown hairs, disciplined.
A dark and big and poofed out parka her armor.
In her pack, a plain bible, cigarettes, Aquinas.

She has a worn and stickered scooter at the ready.

South of the river, November twilight, first stars.
Idolatry on that other side. Roar of the crowd, forgetting.
I imagine her to be Joan, keeping low to do holy work.
The cold insists that we hide. She gets on her scooter.
New castles may push us on somewhere else, take home.
Money buys too much, including respect and honor here.
The young woman, puts on a scratched helmet, speeds
into the falling night, sword invisible, mightier than men.

Small and Eternal

Train, take me to the sea.

I won’t think of her then,

looking out into infinite blue,

feeling so small and eternal.

Train, lull me to sleep again,

rat-a-tat-tatting on the tracks,

and I’ll dream of a world before

Adam’s and mine’s fall.

Train, carry me through the night,

so as the sun rises, pink and tender

in the western sky, I can feel close,

to another and better world.

Train, let me leave old life behind,

that I drove her away, that I broke

her heart, that I made old mistakes.

Let me begin again, small and eternal.

Red On The Lathe

The hem of her dress touched his coffin,

red on the lathe;

we must put the sickle to her throat.

A newborn died, pox of demon bites,

the cry stilled,

her mother shows signs of scorn.

Her crimson hair grows still, ruddy,

chalk is a blood sign,

pretty as daylight in the starry veil.

Black beans in her mouth, turn her head,

no more dead, no more.

Iron is fire is pure will keep her down.

Maybe ashes float to heaven, old days.

She is turned back.

A daughter’s cry. God no!

There Is Color Abounding

New York City, as autumn comes.
Even in the city, there is colors abounding.

I sit under the statue of Nike, goddess of victory.
A face still charms, lost to time, kept in bronze.

 

Jet fighters fly overhead, leaving contrails
to slice up and divvy up the sky, between us, them.

The sky is not ours, just taken, filled it’s whispers.
Even The Church, puts God aside in his heaven.

 

Nike, with her laurels and scepter, she gives medals,
but does not mop up the blood, or heal us in the winning.

it’s autumn, and even here are colors, and the sweetness
of the season sleeping out in the open, while we eat our young.

 

She Will Not

Quiet. Cool forest. Little creek.
I hear angels. I hear them speak.

Autumn comes. She will not.
Her battle won. Her battle fought.

Ghosts can’t haunt the bandstand.
I sleep there, her Armageddon planned.

 

A lock of her hair hold scents of perfume.
It’s seal holds our hands fast, hurries doom.

I lost my way home. I was directed too.
In cold, stony ground, her orchids grew.

A derelict department store has the grail.
The church took the casket, kept her wedding veil.

 

Autumn is a sweet kiss before she slumbers.
I’ll have to stay awake, keep dialing God’s numbers.

She is close, but being unable to touch hurts.
Stay away from the club on Farragut’s outskirts.

I keep a lock of her soul in my whirling wings.
I hear her. I hear heaven. How this wonder stings!

No Boon

I leave this picture hear.
My family so, so, dear.
The stars are so clear.
I leave the picture behind.
For another being to find.
See us, so loving and kind.
The moon is empty of life.
No children. No wife.
No joys of which home is wrife.
I was on the moon.
Dead and dusty. No Boon.
Leaving not too soon.
I leave this picture for another.
A future space brother.
Some of us did love one another.

Black To Velvet To Grey

She’s on the waves, crystal blue, as the sun
awakens behind her, black to velvet to red.
Every morning, before the world begins again,
she’s here on the waves. She says she touches God.

She’s been through hell. She’s spat in the Devil’s eye.
She’s seen the darkness. She’s also held an angel’s hand.
Out on the waves, as the world is still asleep and quiet,
she rides the waves. The peace before the world.

And the world is burning. And I feel a war is coming.
And I let it all get to me. The dark smothers the stars.
Can I be like her? Spit in The Devil’s eye? Hold an angel’s hand?
Because she can still touch God, despite all her pain.

The sky is a crystal blue, like the waves, as she comes ashore.
She smiles at me. We both got to face the world know,
but she has a light I disregard, in hate and in anger.
Maybe I as write these words for her, I can touch God, too.

 

 

The Scent of a Distant Summer

The Model, young and distant,

bright and in a silver eclipse,

wedding ring.

She sits in the gardens,

lush and bright blooms,

the scent of a distant summer.

She is happy. Coming to light.

The night will be here again soon.

The night of her world.

A spirit, a child, her spirit, running

among the exotic and sweet blossoms,

when she all was day and noon.

A spirit, a child, without a care,

without the tarnish of sin,

hers….or others.

The Model smiles, remembers,

all those games and worlds,

all that seemed within reach.

The spirit fades in laughter.

There is a tender shard in her heart.

She weeps bittersweet tears.