Jesus Knelt in Grief Over the Death of Children

Breaking out of silence, Jesus knelt to his knees in moist desert sand & wrote messages with his fingertips to children- “water is water, toys are toys, but by my fingers burn with life, though I toil over tombs with grief & tears- I am the living & I am the dead- I was born to life to bring new hope into the death of children. I am the messenger of the morning sun the prayer book between the morning dew, & the play fields of your daily adventures. When I kneel here again, the end will be the end to all-fire willed into my words- driftwood & sand turn to stone- drag my fingers across hot sand once more- & morning coming without a daybreak. Birds no longer sing, & crickets lose their songs.”

Today

Today there is peace within me. I trust God that I am exactly Where I am meant to be. I have given this control Of my life over to God, & taken it away from myself. This is the gift of faith. His presence Settles in my bones.

CHILDREN IN THE SKY

There is a full moon, distant in the sky, tonight,

Grey planets are planted on an aging white face.

Children, living & dead, love the moon with small hearts.

Those in heaven already take gold thread, drop the moon down for us all to see;

Those alive with us, look out their bedroom windows, tonight, & smile-

Then prayers, then sleep.

Speaking Of Death

Speaking of death- mother, Edith, at 98 in a nursing home blinded with macular degeneration, crippled in pain, drowning in pills, I come to you, blurred eyes, crystal mind, countenance of grace, as yesterday's winds I have consumed you & taken you away. Death hides, but doesn't divide. “Where did God disappear to”- she murmured over & over again like running water or low voices in prayer: “Oh, there He is. Angel of the coming.” Death hides, but doesn't divide.

Faces On A Bus

face on a bus, passing by, nameless, stares out the framed window, frozen like skeleton bone-

boredom nibbling away at his time.

Mount Pleasant Cemetery (the temple of the body)

Gravediggers uprooting caskets with sharp, steel shovels- with each slicing step downward through nerve-rooted earth cooper pennies jingle in change purses dangling by their sides.

They chat casually of Jesus, His painless resurrection from the sealed tomb, moneychangers being chased away from God's holy temple.

Catch On The Fly

Full barrel

up the black asphalt

highway,

53 north

heading to Lake Zurich, IL

Christian talk radio 1660

on the radio dial,

crisp winter day

sunbeams dancing down

on the pavement like midgets.

85 mph in a 65 mph zone,

just to aggravate the police,

black Chevy S10 pick up,

shows what a deviant I am

in dark colors.

Running late for a client appointment.

creating poems on a small hand held recorder

knowing there is not payment for this madness

in this little captured taped area of words.

Headlights down the highway for a legacy

into the future, day dreaming like a fool obsessed.

Working out the layout of this poem or getting my ego in place,

I will catch up with the imagery when I get back home.

This is my life, a poem in the middle of the highway.

Scampering, no one catches me when I'm speeding

like this.

Moon Sleep

I stick

my hand

out toward

the sea

roll out my palm

I offer a plank,

a trail for you.

Follow out into the water

& the salty stars.

When you stretch out

& give your heart

to the final moment

to the glass night sky,

draw me in

sketch my face

on the edge

of the moon-

sad & lonely

over ages of moon

sleep.

JESUS & HOW HE MUST HAVE FELT

staggering up the stairs after an all night drunk- I thought of Jesus & how he must have felt after his resurrection dragging his holy body up that endless staircase spiraling toward heaven.