Cruel Dominion

There is a tyrant,

hidden, stealthy,

who whimsically

foments crises

in the blink of an eye --

between evening and dawn,

between morning and afternoon,

between one hour and another --

catapulting its subject

in a seismic jolt

to the four winds.

If it had a face,
this tyrant,

it would be the face of a monster,

a madman.

If this tyrant had a body,

it would be that of a
vicious, clinging

monkey.

If this tyrant had hands,

they would be giant

claws.

If this tyrant had eyes,

they would be obsessed,

deranged.

If this tyrant had a mind,

it would be twisted,

reeking with the stench of lies,

lies promising Heaven
to the body, to the mind . . .

but, instead,

delivering Hell.

Thirst for Light

Anger . . .

simmering, seeping, spreading

like hot tar over a rose bed . . . . .

Survived by a tender white bud

poking through the blackness  . . . . .

And the tar congeals into

fear.

The mess hardens

that way.

But even pavement softens

in the deep heat of the sun.

Words to a Departing Cathedral

Goodbye,

aged and blessed cathedral

where, by His touch,

deacon voices sprang alive,
where, under His gaze,
little candle-bearer upheld his flame

(wax dripping on his head),
from whose dim and dusty loft

ancient prayers took flight in song

(soaring past St. Martin de Tours on the high glass,

winging upward toward the dome),

whose pealing echoes

bore heart's secret notes

to the Prisoner

freed
by consecrated hands.

Indifference

Warm, no?

But then the cold bares

its teeth

in biting winds,

early frosts,

late thaws,

snow,

and ice.

Gone

the buds and breaths

of spring,

the barefoot warmth

of summer,

the sunset embers of

autumn.

Gone,

gone without

a "Fare thee well!"

or a parting wave.

Gone with the

sudden chill

that freezes the lungs

and racks the bones.

Gone as though

the hat-tipping congeniality

and curtsying welcome

of fair, bright skies

and the winsome "Good day!"

of gentle passing breezes

had never

been.

Dignity

There is a lie afoot

that, having once been vanquished

and dehumanized,

we remain blinded, malformed puppets

in all things.

True, the seared wounds

burn and bleed,

arresting forward motion

in the afflicted parts,

but the pulsing mind still

contacts truth,

observing and measuring

the real.

More than the burn,

more than the bleed,

more than the brokenness

of pain swelling, splitting, cracking the very shell

of what we were,

fear far more, instead,

those who

dehumanize the dehumanized,

cripple the cripple,

and step into the scarred chambers

of the heart

as though into a nursery,

wallpapering fairy tales

where Christ already

imprinted His cross.

The Promise

In the fertile grounds

of Truth,

there is the promise

of words to be found,

freshly turned,

uniquely sprung,

dewdrops glistening

that would mirror any soul

not turned toward
the wall.

Soldier in Shock

Her eyes,

face,

and hands,

unchanged,

yet

foreign

to him.

Lips move

and they speak,

but to his horror

the script

is gone.

She, angry

at the distance.

He,

giving all that remains

in his head.

Shall he pull a topic

out of the sky?

This, after all, is what

polite

strangers do.

Thread of Truth

One loose thread,

essential,

woven through all.

Grasp it,

pull it tight,

then watch

the whole brilliant tapestry

synthesize.