'Til it Won't Rise Again

 I noticed them on the April shore

thinking they were done for

but like wine in old bottles

they persevered, preserved:

salvages for the savages, 

and I should have had an axe,

or a torch, something with which to burn

(but O! how would they ever learn?)

Have I seen these trenches, dear?

The outlines reckon, I fear,

with the foundation of an evil place

and could I pour cement on it,

and make a slab where no bunker would 

exist for them, no rathole, no place

to raise this up again--I would.

Do I know these cornerstones?

Yes, though they were tossed away like bones.

Now rolled back, rolled here, rolled there.

Building a wall, a tower, a church--

I know the names of such places, and the 

way of the work and they should be broken.

Broken. Powdered. And the dust

should white out every 

lie of their making. 

And I will make ink of ashes and tears,

I will make ink of ashes and blood,

I will write for them:

You have tried since the flood

and every time your tongue confounded,

every time your walls did fall,

every time you trampled the young grapes,

every time you burned our harvests,

every time you poisoned our water,

every time you stole our youth,

every happy home you broke with poverty,

every bird you made fall from the sky--

these are the new stones 

that will hold down the slinking Beast,

the Leviathan city you hope to build,

I will heap them up,

I will heap them up,

until your champion bloodred curse will lie

until it won't rise again.

For Christmas

 That we were living 

unforgiven, 

the days dark and long

and knew no respite 

from the fall of night

but the hope of

something strong

enough to stand against

the terror,

self-made

that we were not enough. 

The child was born to 

tell the world we are

worthy of his love. 

Whomever, however.

We are here to love and be loved.

And he said

what you have done unto others

you have done to me.

And they did him dirty

for breaking it down like that. 

And for what they did to him, 

I have stayed angry. 

For every hungry soul unfed

for every true martyr bled,

for every hard skulled saint

who blessed the world 

for wanting it to be what it ain't. 

For those who so willing to cough

up nails to hammer into

human frail

flesh, the Herods and 

Pilates who don't understand--

but present themselves in charge. 

I have loved him,

the one I don't worship,

for saying it aloud

in words that shamed the pompous and proud,

the rebel teacher

who said love one another

and meant it enough

to go down for the words. 

I have loved him, detached from the mystery absurd.

And through all of it

I can wish love to you too. 

In the way that injured prophet 

wanted me to. 

For the great tidings

are that life is now, and forgiveness is near

as the asking and 

we are commanded to love,

and if we do,

follow in the way

the light we throw will lengthen the day,

push back the dark, 

rebuke the fear.

This is Christmas. This is rebirth.

The Great Work of bringing peace on earth,

I weep for those who have 

championed his cross

and for all the world, rejoiced at his loss.

And all our many losses too. 

Still peace and good tidings come to you.

And to all your family too. 

But we can not guarantee the good year. 

For the faith you have is not without its fears. 

And the ransom of your soul

has been in arrears,

for what blood was ever enough? 

If not his? 

But sin persists. 

And the lack of love,

and the promotion of it,

and if the Spirit was a Dove

it would baptize you in its shit. 

A Parody with Apologies to Elton John

 Elon wears his ego like a crown:

some people call him genius

at least that's what they say

with degrees from the finest schools around.

Elon, Elon has some money it fluctuates these days. A digital gold Midas on the information superhighway.

He bought Twitter on a whim on a tragic day and the Twitterverse said the site is dead and the flight's begun-- no one pwned or won that day.

And he shall be Elon, in the pose of a bad man, And he shall be Elon, With a longtermist family plan. And he shall be long gone if this site had a backup plan... He still is Elon

Elon tells bad jokes by the pound, he likes to meme all day. Fanboys laugh like they don't know what's getting thrown away.

The genius, wants to go to Mars or Venus, and leave us peons far behind and Earth will be like Twitter, we can watch it slowly die.

He bought Twitter on a whim on a tragic day and the Twitterverse said the site is dead and the flight's begun-- no one pwned or won that day.

And he shall be Elon, in the pose of a bad man, And he shall be Elon, With a longtermist family plan. And he shall be long gone if this site had a backup plan... He still is Elon.

1

What Breaks Me

 What breaks me is knowing

that under their roofs

there were 

carefully hidden

thoughtfully chosen

beautifully wrapped gifts

waiting for them,

to fill with delight 

those children's faces,

eyes shining,

missing baby teeth,

and they never came home 

to see them

and someone had to figure out

what to do

with gifts

like those.

The Limit Does Not Exist

 To those who would say 

this love is not 

(in your mind) 

a love divine,

what measurement did you use 

to fathom the heart--

either of God's,

or mine?

For I would go

on bended knee to the one I love,

but for you

I would not crawl.

And I would give my life

to the one I love

and care nothing for your words

at all.

If I would fight with angels,

what might I fear from the words

of men?

If I would lose the world for my love--

what of love could you say then? 

My love more visible in deeds

than in the salty tears of spite

of those who claim that love is not right

denying the basic needs

of those to love and be loved.

We are enough for that,

and survive the risks--

those that limit love must learn-

the limit does not exist.

This Ocean Earth

 The fish are all canaries

in our climate taxonomy. 

The ocean is a coal mine,

and we are too dim to see

that the vanishing pods 

the diminishing schools

reveal that we too are doomed,

made victims and fools.

The dying places in the sea

are deserts made of wet.

 They are where the germ of life

was once made--but yet--

the toxic bloom, the deep sea drill,

we farmed the earth and the sea

too deeply and in the still

of the tides, wrought havoc on the world to be. 

We should dig no further

in this salty mine

lest we pierce the heart 

of the world divine. 

The Moth

 The moth

beats

beats

beats her wings

beaten

by the 

space

between the window

and the screen 

so tight

and straight

she could not

have seen

the fatal flaw in the screen

where she came in,

so paralyzed by fear and doubt,

she cannot see

the way to get out.

Mercy is the opening

of a space that never was before

to let a trapped moth soar.

late fall

 the late fall

chills all

with sodden rain

and bleary pall

of the late sluggish gleam

of the light

of day

and the heavy slump

of night.

we feel in our bones

in the fall of our time 

the dint of the seasons 

in the throes of the 

clime

and wonder at how the winter might be--

not too soon,

not too heavy,

hopefully.