Child in the corner by the fence, alone
in the schoolyard
Scratching with a stick
On the ground, pawing
Of epitomizing your feelings in a picture
not knowing how or why
you stand alone, so prone
to the rejection you feel at their play
Under the shadow of tree you stand, blank page
Clouds condensing on your face
as you kick your picture into dust
I know it lad, I know you must
destroy your story
I love you boy as I love the sky
for you are me as I am you
just remember the picture in your rage
of us together, inscribed
And though we cry, friend of mine,
little sullen friend
We cannot let this harm us
though my soul bleeds
for your voiceless pleas
in the form of a story
that just can’t express what you feel . . .
while the angels sip
from God’s sweet chalice of wine
in the form of children surrounded with joy
And moan you not
Young child, young me
young wolf so alone
look past the imminent dusk
and see past the haze
past the loneliness of our days
to our story
that fades from the ground
yet not from our minds
So always we’ll see
the transience of this day and life
Withhold the rain. . . the snow. . .
Let the sun not shine, nor the stars
reveal their face . . . lessness
Permit me no access to the sedate glow
of Moon, nor the smile on
April’s seductive mouth.
Withhold it all from me and let me die
Or live . . .
But if darkness cannot be fixed,
I wish for sleet
Cold, cruel, gray sleet
That I may be consumed by my morbid
Pondering– wet and cold
And always in between.
April, kiss me, rest your lips on my own,
Breathe whatever you want of me into me,
As long as it’s not hope . . .
“The snow is cold tonight,” she said.
I nodded, it was true, it seemed colder.
Perhaps it was the lusterless sky
or the faded moon, obscured by cloud
the patches of stars
-even our visible breath
It could have been us.
No flare, twin icicles dispassionate
or maybe the fact that our eyes were both blue
The world smelled cold.
And she walked as if animated, a corpse
I could feel numbness running through my veins
As though reaching for her.
Our taxi came,
She touched my hand …
Ice upon Ice, Winter upon Winter
Snow a little colder
Silenus, you call to me. . .
Through autumn’s colorful mortality
You call from eternity, for all to see
That our sole consolation resounds with a dull thud.
Of an acorn drawn to ground, burning leaves,
Fruit’s rapturous rotting, spoiling
Winter is upon us, thankfully upon us
no more contradiction . . .
Choir, sing our benediction: Ice and frost will melt away, and
only mud will remain, gleaming in the sun, for all to trudge
through and smell. No more contradiction . . .
Sometimes it frustrated me that the outer world didn’t conform to
my inner reality,
at other times I grew ill and claustrophobic when I realized the perfect
resonance of the two and couldn’t escape.
Choir: the mud shall never dry!
Nevertheless, these undulations led to an indifference– a
confusion, I suppose– in which the God-provided beauty around us that
draws us to him, received new definition– a negative definition– and
indifference toward my situation in life proliferated in the margins of
Choir: the sun shall ever shine!
The outer world from this point was a continuum of the inner
life, and I sank into the perplexity of knowing that it was I who was
responsible . . .
Choir: Christ placed it in our eyes!
Only an inner change could remove my security in indifference and
prompt an inner and outer distinction. For the outer to become
beautiful again, enjoyable again, and reflective of an inner peace, I
had to find an internal remedy.
Choir: that we can finally die!
Silenus, we’ve been offered seasons. . .
Hopelessly annexed to reason
no doubt, that we can despair to treason
before our sovereign and indiscriminate Lord.
But you and Christ have brought us autumn
Remedial, cloaked in dwindling beauty
Announcing death in terms of grace
I feel it: No more contradiction. . .