Battle's End

Spiritual siege gasping its last,
I glimpse the distant light
while fever assails this
body of clay,
outrage assisting the purge
of illusion,
soul's blinding blight
acquired while attempting
to disarm the landmines
of a dissonant tongue.
While I sweated,
bowed low in the field,
sprays of gunfire
pockmarked the air,
scrambling my instincts,
piercing my ears,
twisting,
pulling,
gouging something away
until there was a hole,
a hole sprung wide in my soul.
A labor of love, yes,
but somewhere on that battlefield
between earth and sky
ran an invisible thread of steel
strung taut like a tripwire --
barbed, charged,
and waiting.

Sedative

They say softly,

with perfect diction

and ineffable sweetness,

"I have discovered my own way

to navigate God,"

voices smooth as butter,

bodies flowing with every movement,

toned,

graceful,

malleable . . .

and heads nod "yes" . . .

but somewhere

in the set of the chin

beneath

the softness, the sweetness,

and the fluidity of all that shows

lies something hard,

cold,

unyielding,

tensed like a coiled

snake

ready to strike.

Perspective

Weary is the eye,

turning to sky --

weary of hands filled with

nothing 

wrapped up

as something,

all dressed up

in noise.

Lift Gently

Lift gently, fog,

that soul may not

stagger

from light's sudden

clarity.

The Real

Edges rubbing, grinding raw

More ragged abrasions than eye ever saw

Soul bruising soul even when unintended

The spiritual crashing through fences unmended

The battle plays out on unseen ground

Onslaught relentless, no rest to be found

Wounds gaping wide as blood and tears mingle

Winds so biting, the extremities tingle

This -- the landscape no eye can behold:

Spiritual warfare, losses untold.

Christmas - Present

While the world, frenetic, forgets Christmas,

for me it begins --

air crisp, dotted with flurries,

nighttime's lacy veil.

Breathing freely for the first time since --

when? --

I feel His peace . . .

full and flowing, clear as water.

Could it be this simple?

This nighttime clear,

this looking 'round,

this breathing deeply,

soul sinking, exhausted, into rest

safe and solid.

They frightened the soul (didn't they?) --

tied it up in knots,

worried it sick,

chased peace away

with their alarming madness --

self-inflicted craze mistaking

excess for joy,

emotionalism for love,

full bellies for peace.

Meanwhile, He was sleeping,

just sleeping,

quietly in a manger.

When all is still and calm enough,

when I can feel Him Being, like a blanket, Always and Everywhere,

then I know, for certain,

that I need never heed the mad ones,

for He wants me neither jittery nor frightened.

This -- this! --

is my Christmas.

The Desert

It seems that the preparation for truly great things often takes place in searing loneliness.

Beauty, Please Teach Me

Beauty, please teach me your gracious ways:

how to bend and not break,

how to touch and not shatter,

how to rejoice, respecting sorrow,

how to weep, still open to joy,

how to love, never counting the cost . . . 

that I may be richer for knowing you.

Time's Due

Perspective change --

and thoughts cost more,

less able to flit

here and there as before.

More leaden, more fixed,

more concentrated pain,

less able to distract

for momentary gain.

More weighty, more real,

non-negotiable views,

with a strong aversion to

frivolous news.

Get to the bottom line --

don't waste time.

The long, crooked route

is a spiritual crime.

Unmoored

Without the depths of gratitude,

nothing worthy stands.

Persons are dispensable;

words -- just shifting sands.

Value comes then leaves again,

changing with the moon.

Love flows in then ebbs away

from midnight to high noon.

Nothing stable, nothing sure,

nothing fixed in stone --

when gratitude is missing,

man loves himself alone.

The Delicate Balance

There are those who smash rising truth

without thinking twice . . .
who, in the name of love and duty,

flatten wonder,

awe,

and dawning realizations

with the tacit supremacy of
the intractable,

the material,

the practical . . . 

and something is lost,

perhaps forever,

when tender infant thoughts

must fly away abruptly

to make room

for another's brusque concrete and immediate.

Is this truly the flowering of mutual charity,

or is this a tragic

misunderstanding of duty's sweeter way
whose flawed spirit --

tainting its best works with the blunt force of a hammer --

will most quickly crush the soul?

Native Hunger

There is something up there,
out in the open,

beyond the lies and evasions

and the million little cowardices of man;

and the ravenous hunger draws me

away from walls and ceilings and doors

to the 

great Out There,

where freedom is a garment 

I can feel

blowing against my arms,

whipping back and forth in the wind,

widening my eyes

from tunnels to skies . . .

and I try to remember

this feeling of Free,

so that I can bring it back with me

inside the walls and ceilings and doors

and never lose me

again. 

Perhaps

Hope . . . 

a sudden flicker of light,

blanket of calm down deep,

mystery whispering to the soul,

"Perhaps all is not lost, after all.

Take my hand."

In Peril

When the rich man's dime

is worth more than the poor man's heart,

the world dangles

upside-down. 

Inner Peace

To burn brightly, evenly

with the clarity of the purest

candle.

Faith

There was a feeling

of breathtaking Mom,

white and pink,

radiant sun,

gleaming gold rays,

shining green leaves,

"whoosh" down the slide,

hot pavement,

jelly beach sandals,

sweet cocoa butter lotion,

wide, laughing smiles,

friends just an elbow away,

and the cherishing

kind of love

where a hug could leap out of the arms

naturally,

before the old days

were banished.

I have pursued that

hopeful, glowing spirit

in city streets and cathedrals,

from here even to

Paris.

Wherever that spirit is,

I must be.

I will find it

once again.

The Doomed Fate of Envy

Worse than rat poison

is the demon Envy,

corroding all that she touches

and all that she receives,

pounding a continual pulse

of grandiose dissatisfaction,

bitterness exquisite

(celebrated for its profound intensity

and self-bestowed entitlement)

as she, Envy, promenades in the garb of glorified self-pity,

turning her miserable self 'round and 'round,

gnarled fingers pointing and coarse voice screeching,

"Give that to me!  That should be mine!"

shoving love rudely to the sidelines

in her compulsion to receive, receive, receive

all that is her "due"  . . .

none of which could ever make

such a cold-blooded vixen

happy.

Premise

To the cynic,

uplifting words are

the patter of a leaky faucet

dripping.

To the hopeful,

uplifting words are water

glistening in the desert.