Forget (poem)

Forget
_____________________

I do not desire radical utopia
Rather I yearn for the chance to become
a decent man.

But don't ask me how.

We are not saved
without our brother;
for how can I love
the God whom I cannot see
if I cannot love my sister
when she appears before me?

The Abyss

The Abyss

I stand on the edge once again

pondering what the demons fear

-- torment before their time, being sent here --

they'd rather dwell, unclean spirits in impure swine,

on the edge.  They know that they are nothing,

from nothing, bound to Nothing.  They have faith

yet are not justified, and they shudder.

But all else they shove this way, breaking

a man, or men, and returning each time

with those more wicked than themselves

until they are Legion, able to fight off their greatest foe.

When He appears, He brings the Abyss with Him

-- it is His Love --

and they fear it.  God, I fear it, too. Every picture

of myself, every bit of discrete knowledge built

up over these many years forms a wall, nay,

a cell that protects me from that well.

I've stared in it, vast and deep, more immense

than any primordial sea, and it has returned my gaze.

A crucified man, a man of sorrows, unable to comfort

his Mother who stands besides, except with adoption

communion with a friend, who now becomes 'son.'

Will she receive Him back again? Will I receive any

of that which I've known as me?

I learn from the pigs, who would rather be swallowed up

in the waters of Love, then dwell with the demons here.

Apocalyptic Hopes

We will have the whole world fight against us
raise up a banner, bathe itself in our blood:
for what? to prove that it is strong, has reason
for its pride?  Oppressor and oppressed alike die;
from dust they come and to dust they return.
There is no hierarchy in the grave.

Let them beat the air, shadow-boxers all;
let us give ourselves bodily over -- the only power
they possess is to kill the body. When we cease to love
is when we kill the soul.  Fear that.  And repent.
Violence is the way of the world, the last dying gasp
and grasp upon a life we pretend to own:
filled to the brim with apocalyptic vision and heavenly hope
based on hate and subjugation.  This is not the Kingdom.

Let us dwell on the Cross, let us call out for the nails,
the scourge, the beatings -- call the thorns a true crown
true power, true prestige in mockery.  Conformed to his death
humiliation
so that after a brief rest, we might rise in his light.

The Wheat and the Tares

The wheat and the tares
both grow under the shining Love;
known early, early by the Farmer
but left to sprout until seed -- together.
Under the loving care the one
blossoms forth thirty-fold
sixty-fold, one-hundred-fold hallelujah;
the other bitters and resents the ground
the air, the early and late rains,
most of all the heat, damned heat,
of the Sun of righteousness.
So is revealed, before Harvest,
the presence in the heart
of Heaven and Hell.  Will the tare notice
the Fire, or see it as more of the same?
Doubtless the wheat threshed, crushed,
chaffed, stripped, ground into the Loaf
will be saved as through another Fire --
though He is truly the same.

In the Style of Miyazaki

To be filled with love! ah, that is the dream;
to live without eyes clouded by hate
to see, no, to know friends and enemies
neighbors and strangers as one
knit together in the flesh of the Divine.
There are days, too many, too many,
where this seems an impossible dream
but moments, brief glimpse of resurrection,
when the heart overflows and all are encompassed
in the sweet arms on the Cross.

Adulthood (poem)

Adulthood

When I was young, it was easy to grow up;
There was a day, I knew not when,
When it was, simply, true.
No ceremony or rite,
no journey into the wilderness;
Maybe a nod of the head
signaled the journey’s end.

And so, now, I see that adulthood
must be realizing youth’s foolishness.
But this cannot be enough, for,
God, I’m still a fool.
I know more than I did then,
but I’m no better at keeping true.
Could maturity be the piquancy of guilt?

I used to think I could do it on my own,
but the older I become, and I feel it,
the more I need companions, hell,
the more I need my parents;
but that ship has sailed, I fear,
years and years and years of neglect
and strain and secret resentment:
how can I come home now?

Could this be why I’ve resisted this so long?
Three kids in and I still want to be
that geeky college kid, universally adored
in his own mind.
But fear, more often than not, is irrational:
who is there to catch me if I fail?
No one. And everyone.
Adulthood is the realization of love
and the loving of all;
forgiveness, repentance, reconciliation –
these, these!, are our prime meals.

Children cannot handle bitterness
and so gravitate to the sweet;
it is the special province of the aged
that these bitters are desired.

To My Wife (poem)

To My Wife
_____________________

How shall I begin?
It is easy to speak about
    some phantastical delight
    of a nightingale, or the sun
    on dew-drenched grass.
Much harder to call to the pen
    the familiar.  For what is marriage
    but the essence of the mundane?
The work of a myriad myriads of
    generations: the feeding,
    the sheltering, the nurturing
    and the cajoling.
The tender affection and private
    play, mixed but unadulterated
    with the senseless infliction
    of pain, too keenly sensed.

I read the other day, a news report
    of mens' despondency when
    their wives make money.
How easy to forget it is no longer
    my work or your reward
    my pride or your comfort.
On that day, I ceased to be
    and you left all old realities
    becoming, til time's end, we.

The Resting Place (poem)

And what does it mean to know
that all our heroes and our gods will fail us?
When sharing bread has become no more than a meal;
and who we are is solisp ideal?

I look at my child newly born
Sleeping in my resting arm.
I have brought her into this terror world
I do not know whether to feel guilt or fear;
but feel I must.

And when she rests me in my tomb
--for dust am I and to dust must I return--
and looks on me no more, it will not be
guilt and fear that stay,
nor will they follow me. But pain.

Here is where I'm tempted to despair:
Pain borne alone is only death.
It is in commune that we not merely live--
This necessity finds its home there.
And in this place can grief and sorrow exhausted lay
while sweet maternal lullabies stir the air.

Untitled (poem)

I found this one scrawled in my HUM 103 teaching notes. I cannot remember when I wrote it, although with this set of notes it would have had to have been within the last three years...I think. There is no title on it.

_____________________________

A poet is to take the unspeakable
and gently place it into
the container of words.
The ocean in a jar
both is and is not.
For that within is an image,
an icon,
with a longing to return.

So the words that circumscribe
love
Partake and like the salty brine
cause the water and the drinker
to yearn
To long for communion where they
are not lost
But have their fullest place.

Nepsis (poem)

Nepsis

What is love but watchfulness?
An ascesis of patience
A participation in He who is
with another.
Our communion becomes
in His patient passion
Divine.

The voices of children
proclaim the good news:
the two intertwined
unconfused
united
Two persons mirroring
the One
Who in the Love He is
has made us
the one Flesh
Which is the Life of the World.

The Triduum (poem)

The Triduum

It was a day of tumult and song
When the Conquerer conquered was
And our masters swooned their devilish delight
To see the one who refused at the pinnacle
Fall from such a great height.

That auspicious day! Day of triumph and victory!
was no day of light
but deepest gloom that could be felt.
For his cross was the bar
that pried the doors from their hinges.

And the gates of hell
shall not prevail
And devil's flee
from sinners set free.

For it was not just a mere incursion
But a full blown invasion
as he fit each captive now free
with weapons sharp and two-edged.
This one has, since that dark day,
ne'er failed to steal more away.

Our songs are new
as we come full force
past the strong man bound and gagged
to do these works of God
for the life of the world.

Ozymandius (poem)

Irony is what I saw near Ozymandius' sandy grave
For this once great king eulogized
By a once great poet
of a once great civilization
Had asserted his power one last time.

And Shelley's point of power fading
Has been lost on all leaders,
great and small;
For the feverish grasp of authority
legitimacy and legality
Has ground us down finer than his powder.

Caius remains a mortal; yet no mortals are we
if care we take to guard our legacy --
we shall be remembered as the freedom fighters
who destroyed the tyrannies
of marriage and bonded sexuality;
of peace and the rule of law;
of religion and the healing of man.

The great statue's somber sneer
has, as of late, taken on a queer
aspect as his frown
has contorted the other way 'round.
A chortle one might hear
escape those sun parched lips
as his message rings out loud and clear.

The West II (poem)

In the twilight of the West
when the sun completes his crest
we prepare for the long dark.

For the world once so sure
does not appear quite secure
and the dawn may never spark.

But the light of the blasts
and the breaking of the castes
assures us of their target mark.

Let us then, night dwellers,
Bomb the world from our cultural cellars
And alight the world in her glorious stark.

For this night, our night,
Has long been our eager delight
And this tomb is our self-made dark.

The West (poem)

It is hard
Hard
Hard
to teach about the West
to reveal in the simplicity of the docile Gentleman of Judea
to glory in aeternal Roma
to seek the catharsis of the cathedral

It is hard
Hard
Hard
to call for cultivation of our Heritage
to breathe new life
to seek hope on the road
to unite with the past

As it descends
Descends
Descends
to an orgy of blood
to an infernal circle
unimaginable by Dante’s vision
to an attack on life itself
to barbarism

The Huns are not at the gate
The Vandals do not threaten from afar
The Goths have not begun to array

The pillage is long over
The desecration far proceeded
So we look for St. Benedict to arise

but the monasteries are empty

and we are alone.

A Son of Adam

Today we found out (finally!) that our little baby in utero is a girl. It came as quite a shock, since we both had the "boy feeling". I am filled with joy, though, as her birthdate ("meeting day") between daddy and daughter draws near. It does remind me, though, of how I *should* already be a father, but lost the baby through miscarriage. I wrote this about Hyam, the name of our unborn son, October 2004 when he should have been born:

A Son of Adam
L’Hyam

Some nights I go through the house turning on all the lights
Just so that they will be there for me
A reminder of that primordial inbreaking
When a light that couldn’t be overwhelmed was sparked.
A life that could not be put away by the schemes and machinations of men;
A life taken down by man but raised by God again.

The lights dim to just a vigil candle
A votive lit in memory of one short life;
So gentle and peaceful
Even though winds blew strong
A guiding hand blocked it during a slow gait
Towards shelter.

And I wonder when God will give us life again.
With one small light darkness easily prevails
And snuff out a flickering flame;
Leaving only the smell of smoke and sulfur;
Bitterness and wormwood mixed to drink together.
Then the light goes out—
There is no consolation in the dark because no one can see you cry.

J. Alfred

This is a poem based off of two previous works: The Love Story of J. Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot and Prufrock by Charles Modro (a coworker of mine and part of the band Xara. Some of the subject matter is a bit adultish (but not in the late night Cinemax sort of way), so parental discretion advised. Once again, the Blogger formatting isn't friendly to my style of aesthetic writing, so I apologize that you all will miss some of the important indents. Please enjoy...
_______________________________
J. Alfred

I can think of death
I can think of life
But to live! that’s the thing
Whether by boats or cars or planes
TVs with a thousand neglected channels on satellite
Computers blazing graphics of endless death
Sex often and obscure—yet I die too.

The car rusts
The TV tubes burst
The orgasm ends
Not with a bang, but a whimper.

I’ve become the Hollow Men, for we are many.

What foul principality has a hold of us now?
Whiter teeth in twenty days
Faster internet speed
Now this new, now that new
But the grass still grows the same way.

The body has severed the Head
Then the arms
Now the toes have to learn war.

Cry out, “God, deliver us!”
Deliver us from our greatest enemy!
The Hater of our souls!
His name is Hollow Men.
“Make war on our foes!” we cry
Waiting for the evening news
To flash our enemies’ demise
And the falling price of gasoline.

This is your life,
Ending one second at a time.
Two and you’re considered fortunate.

Priests on Viagra is the opiate of the masses
Turning our hearts away from finding
The hidden God.
The Hollow Men is filled up to the brim,
His cup overflows with the wrath of the lamb
A table is set in the presence of his enemies
A table for one please
I’ll be dining alone tonight.

Eat well and eat long
Glut on varied delights
I’d like fries with that
Coffee two…no three cups
The poor wouldn’t like the taste anyway
They should be happy they have jobs
God loves everyone
The vomitorium, replies the waiter, is on your left.

The Lord is coming, the Lord is acomin’
Shield Co. will stop the nighttime thief
Whose house we stole.
Beware.

Cast Off (Poem)

I write poetry a good deal. I'd like to share some, also. Here's one I wrote tonight during class. Please feel free to comment on it, as I'm always looking at improving my writing. Unfortunately, the blogger doesn't like my formatting, so you miss some of the visual detail the poem is supposed to evoke...sorry.
______________________________
Cast Off

I am the master of my fate,
Captain of my soul
Shipwrecked on this lonely island--
Building my raft out of my ingenuity:
An objective construct that
(hopefully)
won't hold water.
I will get home:
So that I can avoid my wife
And drop off the kids at day care...
Because I need more time in the sandbox:
Here I control the sands.

For Michael

This is in grateful dialogue with Keith and his desire for contributions to the memory of Michael Barbato.

I wrote this the day I learned that Michael had started his path towards resurrection:

A Prayer in the Face of Death

I fear resurrection will never come
that it has passed us by without a glance;
never to shine on our downcast faces.
And here we are:
Some lame, same blind, some fast asleep,
but all suffering under the cruel bondage of despair.
Waiting, praying, pleading for the bonds to break
And our restoration to come.
Our lips say, “Where is the promise of its coming?”
But our hearts say, “A little longer it will not tarry.”
Are we alone, speaking into air growing thinner?
Or are we ignored, a worse fate still?

I wish that I could take on the pain of the grievers around me,
The ones lifting their voices to heaven,
Weeping, crying, weeping yet more,
Inarticulate words only interpreted by Spirit;
But I am no sufferer in servitude;
I can not bear my own grief as it is.

Hope needs a sign.
Do we believe that this is not the way it is to be?
Or do we die contentedly,
even welcoming the cold grip of Death’s hands?
Is there any hope that someday the warm love of God
will itself pry those dead fingers apart and free us?
Hope needs a sign.

I long to see the days when his tombstone is cast aside,
When a womb can bring forth life
When our friends bodies are not eaten away in premature rot;
When our children die not before they breathe.
God, send us the sign of Jonah! Send us your Son from heaven!
Make these bodies animated by Adam’s fault,
Be instead energized by Jesus’ life.
Give us not over to the unbearable corruption of watching friends,
family, saints, and loved ones wither before our eyes!
May we all rest in shalom on your coming Sabbath Day.
Amen.