From blank screen to logorrhea, I write with confused adumbrations
Methinks hmm, perhaps
I admittedly self plagiarize and quite aware
aforementioned amalgamated, conglomerated,
fabricated, jerry rigged, and organized
eye gripping titled
poem already aired a year plus ago,
though revisiting said theme
downplayed now as thoughts blare,
though similarly filched content
(pertaining to other literary endeavors)
invariably glommed electronically
(digitally remastered and remixed),
nevertheless gobbledygook enigmatically
jerkily, and quirkily communicated,
sans trademark Pi Seine (seen) fishtail career
as applies to uber secreted questions.
This chap challenges himself,
an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
within psychic calm and weal
with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally anonymous reader
mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely
a black hole sun (son) prominence
asthma faux eminence amber gris
long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter
in a dark alley coal less sing
burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
would be proffered to hear.
Most instances when I initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
NASA hiss (Onassis)revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly, grow
tusk long haired woolly creature
out malm mouth drool dripping
trademark characteristic viz
pencil neck geek
madly scratching itchy hairs
dotting chinny chin chin of
garden variety generic hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby frank and ernest poet;
home body (nowhere man);
beetle browed fool on the hill;
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy common Joe,
just biden his time,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
comes home to stir the roost.
(Hard boiled eggheads merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst
of tangential threads populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),
trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate
coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to sperm cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. Hoe
Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining Motorhead
(ace of spades) tour de force,
whereat fingers of the left hand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expanded Leaves (of Grass)
finds me Waltzing Whitman nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.
This penchant spurring confabulation
explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
expatiating honest to dog ness
figuratively go win west
hoard (word) ho seeking
mine own mother lode acquired,
via verse a tile material undergoing
electric kool aid acid test
incorporating rigorous (mortise
and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,
and webbed woven semicolon aided nest
reinforced with double entendre
tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
(ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)
tenants in common beau geste
ma bell heavable own home spun faux
Cambridge Analytica
Jimmy Crack corn and I don't care
gimcrackery defaced facebook best
bite, with absolute zero
data snatched aye evasively attest
death be not proud
in relation to world events.
Jinxed jesting jejune junior jobber...
just jabbering gibberish (A - J)
Again, another awkward ambitious
arduous attempt at alphabetically
arranging atrociously ambiguously
absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.
Because...? Basically bonafide belching,
bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,
bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting
bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,
boasting bougainvillea background.
Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap
chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,
chafed centenary, codifies communication
cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably
cheerful college coed.
Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,
doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood
descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring
dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,
deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor
Demento double, declaring depraved
daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck
derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.
Eccentric, edified English exile,
effervescent, elementary, echinoderm
eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,
etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional
emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,
eschatologically entranced, elongated
elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,
effectively experiments, emulates epochal
eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,
exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting
emphysema.
Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative
flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,
fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,
felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,
flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,
faceless, feckless, financially forked,
foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled
feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,
fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs
"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating
fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.
Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,
goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,
genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,
gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,
garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,
gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic
giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy
gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,
geographically generically germane,
gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,
guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns
ginning gumpshun.
Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,
haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,
hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely
hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,
hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,
Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic
heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,
homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.
Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,
idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,
irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,
ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,
insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble
itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating
immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted
inside igneous intrusions immensely
imperturbable improbable.
Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester
just jimmying jabberwocky
justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish
jubilantly jousting jittering
jazzy jawbreaking jumble
justifying, jostling, Jesus;
junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll
joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;
jammed jello junket jiggled
jeopardized jingled jugs.
Unsettling premonition kickstarts fiendish abomination
Consider the following
dogmatic, enigmatic, fantastic,
idiotic, jargonistic, kimetic, linguistic,
narcissistic, opportunistic,
poetic, quixotic, rhapsodistic,
scholastic, transformistic,
universalistic agglomeration
as an abbreviation
overactive imagination
wrought demonic manifestation
unaware reading dictionary
could engender garrison housing
Century 21 ghostly conjuration
paranormal shenanigans this
Lake woebegone resident
grudgingly attests perturbation
disembodied spirit betook
(analogous to Casper
the friendly ghost)
"FAKE" spooky introduction
primarily cause ethereal
phantom of the opera mine
diaphanous doppelganger actualization
forcing agonizing confrontation
blindly highlighting spectacular illumination
constituting undeniable declaration,
whereby stagnant existence
aligned stark juxtaposition
courtesy faux charade, escapade, facade...,
gimcrackery literary affectation
yielded (still does) negation
to befriend prospective logophile,
essentially begetting immediate amputation
as posited a posteriori said acquisition
regarding, kneading, experiencing...
inclusiveness feeling reviled discrimination
foisted linkedin with nonestablishmentarian
progressive, liberal, agnostic Unitarian
paradigm upbringing birth parents
decreed ideal articulation
to foster independent cogitation
among yours truly, and his two sisters,
at one time felt veneration
marble lustrous bead
felt towards (guess who) second born
only brother gifted with affliction
diagnosed recent as
schizoid personality disorder,
a mental health condition,
whereat emotional affinity
toward kin folk sundered
buzzfeeding self cannibalization
predicated on inchoate
in utero causation
insync with adaptation
(actually Putin on Ritz key conspiracy
incorporating Russian collusion)
in tandem with basket of deplorables
little rock and rolling
witnesses regeneration
frothy heady windblown
dyed in wool Taj Mahal size
pompadour toupee coronation
ego freezing troll defies decapitation
barley bubbling within hopscotching
mucky swamp characterization
capital hillbilly Phoenix
resembling archeopteryx alights
shrill screeching, digging lame talons
into trumpeting paunchy underbelly.
Food for Thought
God.
____________
That is my longest poem.
Not for what it doesn't say but for which also goes without saying. That is, "all that's said" that "goes unsaid." I know this is a snarky way to make my entry to the challenge, but I wanted to make a point of how one small word can fill volumes of words in my mind. Disqualify me, certainly. But you'll never be able to memorize the whole thing or set it to music.
Burn
You smell like sunshine. When your skin is saturated in it and every hug smells like childhood lake days and you thrill me like teenage amusement park rides. You’re warm beneath my fingertips and your lips stay cool, pressed to my heated skin and you burn me. You burn me until I am nothing but freckles and sun spots. My skin is taut, red and soft to the touch. Was the burn worth the warmth that covered me? Yes. I would happily burn my burns for you.
In Memory Of.... by Delmond Marshall
This is in memory of a great friend I lost recently. I didnt lose them to a car accident, drug overdose, a long term illness or street violence, but to their decisions to do things that I do not approve of, stand for, or believe in.
This in Memory Of true story about a once thriving relationship, no longer best friends.
Things that I as a man, who stand strong by what I believe in can not look past or ignore,
The constantly taking my kindness for weakness wasting my time, I cant deal with any more....
The wake was a few months ago and I was the only one in attendance, convinced to face this loss alone.
I said a prayer as I deleted this person's contact info, texts and call log from my phone...
I remember asking this person to stop with what I percieved as "detrimental behavior" for the sake of our friendship, but I was told, "Why are you so sensitive, leave me alone, Im grown.
Shaking my head, so far gone, this person is so blinded by their delusions of self-grander & ignorance that they are too blind to see, the negative feedback of their actions on their own.
I wish it was a drug or alcoholism problem because we'd know what steps to take, treatments needed to correct the issues...
Instead of substance abuse this person met their demise with me because of the irrational, self-centered thoughts, ways & actions of a savage this person have in their head...
Im sure many of us have have lost a close friend, or lover, or family member not to death, but because of the choices they made or things they do that is not alright with you....
So instead of fussin and fightin with them, you simply walk away from them COMPLETELY, and leave them to do what they do...
Its hard at first to accept this as their fate when you reminise about all the good times you two had together and you thought it would last forever...
And it would have had this individual treated you and themselves a whole hell of alot better.
There's no tombstone to make the gravesite of this loved one, you still see them in person, or hear from them daily or both.
They are alive and well still, but until this person start treating themselves better, to me they will remain a ghost..
#The7Since1987
Love’s Death
Choice of words
Choice so obscure
Obscure mind
Obscure line
Line of sight
Line the sky
Sky that fell
Sky of poems
Poems for you
Poems that bled
Bled from soul
Bled for time
Time and laughter
Time well-spent
Spent so freely
Spent with you
You now busy
You now gone
Gone from me
Gone for good
Good things end
Good things die
Die like stars
Die so dark
Dark with despair
Dark falls over
Over my love
Over my spell
Spell is broken
Spell went wrong
Wrong was financed
Wrong plus tax
Tax my patience
Tax my effort
Effort so earnest
Effort was wasted
Wasted rough drafts
Wasted tears
Tears that choke
Tears that stain
Stain the memory
Stain the sheets
Sheets can strangle
Sheets that cover
Cover with soil
Cover a grave
Grave of love
Grave that's haunted
Haunted
Love
He’s Delusional
I loved his whole essence.
The reflection in his bright blue eyes.
Each time I fell deeper and deeper into his trap.
He was captivating. Held a sense of power over me I couldn’t quite shake.
I waited for so long to find someone who knew me in ways others couldn’t
I was there when he when me. But distance when I was the one in pain.
I was planning on leaving him. Planning to escape his pull.
Before I got my chance to run, he surprised me with a ring.
I soon realized this ring was my way out.
Take the money and leave the man. The words I repeated each morning.
Her love was all I needed.
The way she looked at me. Filling my heart with hope.
She made me who I was. Her gentle tone and empathic ways, made me hope for the best.
She was mine, mine to have love. Mine to cherish.
She was the princess in the tower and I was her prince.
Always there for each other. Two souls together in the pain of life.
I planned to marry her. Spend each waking moment by her side.
When it was time, I finally asked. Asked her if she would be my wife.
She was so moved, moved by my love for her. She was obsessed with me.
I will spend the rest of my days loving her. She was mine forever.
The Women in the Trees
Let me tell you the story,
of the women in the trees
A girl,
draws water from a well
the forest, all temperate and windy in the mountains draws back
her rebozo sticks to her arms
clay pot jabs against her waist
things are done differently in the mountains
water-slick hands
dirt and masa beneath her nails
she's only thirteen
that's old enough
A grandmother,
older than the revolution
tucked herself away during the Cristero
old enough to remember when men dangled from the trees,
sits
frowning
kneading at stone
mortar and pestle
push and pull
there was no electricity, yet, not in the mountains
The girl,
her granddaughter
pours the water into the adobe lavadero
splashes her skirt a little
no running water yet either in the mountains
The grandmother,
kneading
cross dangling from her neck
on her knees, penitent flattening masa
tells her
to go get more
everything is done by hand here in the mountains
The girl,
chipped clay pot in hand
twin braids,
the way her mother used to do
does as asked
twisting and pulling
rope stinging her calloused palms
she's only a child
but she's got hands
like she's been working since she was born
A man,
wanders out of the arboles
swaying trees that break apart for him
he calls out to her
a glint in his eye
a friend, he calls himself
The girl,
she hoists up her pot
and her skirts
and tells him that he's gone the wrong way
preparing to run
The man smiles,
and descends upon her
you want this, he says
i want you, he says
it's love at first sight, he says
and wraps his arms around her
she screams
she runs up the hill
fast feet can only do so much
against a man
he catches her
the clay pot shatters
it was a different time, but we knew it was bad even then, in the mountains
he hurts her
simply
angrily
she claws and screams and bites and cries
jagged edges of clay digging into her back
The man,
wild-eyed
blood-hungry
sinks his knife
over and over in her chest
until she is more wound than girl
The grandmother,
runs down the hill
down the ranchero steps
past the chickens
past the trees
flour stuck to her fingers
shrieking the name of her child's child
he stabs her
forty-two times
they only have open-casket funerals in the mountains
her arms
are covered in defensive wounds
grandmother-skin all worn and sagged
sliced open
to the bone
her daughters,
away
what a tragedy, whispers the chismosa
stand quiet
at the viewing
grandmother and granddaughter, abuelita y nieta, laid out like wounded angels
takes two days before the viewing is over
before the Church says it's alright to bury them
their refuge is in heaven now
The man,
flees
before he can be strung up
there are no police in the mountains
The daughters,
hear
whispers,
convocations,
allegations,
of the man who did it
a slip of tongue
a twist of fate
word of mouth
he who hurts is here
this was how we did things in the mountains
braided hair, just like their mother's mother
knives belted to their waists
poised low in the trees
lying in wait
as the man,
walking home
along the dirt road
gnawed on a nectarine
pit and juices jutting against his teeth
daughters,
mother-blood hot and angry
descended upon him
his nectarine, laid in the red dirt, an afterthought
as they drew into him
and cut
The Book of Psalms
Well-Being I won
And Wisdom, too.
I grew and took joy in my growth:
From a word to a word
I was led to the word,
From one deed to another deed.
—The Poetic Edda, (circa 1200 AD)
In the Beginning
1 It was hard at first, but the lessons God taught him.
Like a warrior without a sword, he was
without words. There was nothing he could do.
He was a young man—a boy really—who
wanted, more than anything, to be a poet.
God said, That’s fine: give me back the talent.
This is the way it is if you love me.
Give it back. No Questions. Faith it.
The young man gave back the talent. God said,
Good. I’ll make you a living epistle.
Isn’t this the way God is, always lifting things
to metaphor? The kid wanted to be a poet
but a living epistle sounded neat. He liked
the way God talked—like a poet!—so he
agreed. He didn’t know what he was in for.
The Twenties were the worst. The Teachable
Twenties, God called it. That’s when God beat
the shit out of you for ten years. Then the Tireless
Thirties when you put into practice what you
learned; then the Fiery Forties when the passion
kicks in; and so on God went, naming the decades
in simple terms like the way God does when
in Teacher mode. But The Twenties were
the worst. God went on about Potters
and Clay and the kid wound up in pieces,
his mind here, his heart there, his soul a pile
of shards on God’s floor. God saw it was Good,
swept up the kid, put him in a bowl of tears
until he dissolved into mud. From the kid’s
point of view, it was horrible. His mind was mush.
It was worse than his worst trip on acid.
All he wanted was chocolate bars, the pain
was so bad. Then the shaping began—God’s
Hands all over him, around his heart, between
his legs, painful and sweet, so...intimate,
God’s hands on his body—molding, shaping.
Then came The Fire. We won’t even talk
about The Fire. Some things are Mysteries.
God has a reputation to maintain.
When it was over God breathed into him
seven times. Seven because that’s the way
God does it when it has to be perfect.
The boy woke up, a young man. He spoke of
many things in parables and rhymes. He
was just beginning to learn his lessons.
2 Blank. Empty. Clean. That's what he felt like:
Blank Slate. Empty Vessel. A Clean Whistle
for God to blow through—a wind instrument
for God to play on—a vessel to fill—
a slate to write on—it was exhausting
going back and forth between images
without sinking—like walking on water—
like Jesus—vessel-wine , slate-word—STOP, STOP!—
he shouted—you're making me crazy!
Isn't this the way it is‚ being pushed
to the edge—then over the edge—
then the spill, the stain, the vessel broken,
the tears. God likes it when the soul leaks out:
it softens things into shaping, and molding.
As they say in the trade, God has Good Hands.
But the vessel broken says, NO WAY!
Put me back together the way I was
Go get some Crazy Glue! God laughs, cries, waits
and waits. God's good at waiting. And guess what?
God never uses Crazy Glue; never
puts things back the way they were. Never.
3 Back to the young man. (God has a way of
taking center stage.) He's running around
with his head cut off, so his friends say.
They can't understand him. It's like he says
the word Grapefruit but they hear Armadillo.
They make circular motions with their index
fingers just beyond their ears to indicate
the mental state that they think he is in.
Damn! they say. What's got hold of you? Shit! Fuck!
He looks up expecting a lightning bolt.
God is not offended by the language.
This is the first lesson he learns.
4 God rolls up the sleeves, gets right into him.
The clay is fine, spanking new. But the mind—
there's all this bad software to delete. God!
God says (not in vain), What have they done! Who
fucked with my programming? Shit! Damn!
(God gets into language when pissed.) Meanwhile...
Church, State, School, and Home run
for cover. They know who's responsible.
God's looking up the appropriate verses:
I will whet my glittering sword. I will
make mine arrows drunk with blood—God's so pissed—
can't decide which weapon. There's Hell to pay.
The young man is temporarily insane
with God's Fingers in his cerebral
cortex trying to set it straight again.
This takes seven months. For God, it's a blink.
For the young man, it's eternity. He's
in agony. There's hell to pay.
He looks in the mirror: sees a stranger.
He walks in front of traffic: an angel
intervenes. He doesn't know where Home is.
He doesn't know his left from his right. He
doesn't know how to go out or come in.
He mixes them up backwards.
He goes in the Out doors: tuO, they say.
He comes out the In doors: nI, they say.
He buys many chocolate bars.
5 He doesn't know it but he's having what
mystics call Epiphanies. (Too bad he
can't enjoy them. All those pictures of saints
in ecstasy? Not untrue; just not the
whole picture. Good editing on God's part—
Good PR for recruiting purposes.)
He sees spirits everywhere: inside in
the woodwork, wallpaper, linoleum;
outside in trees, pavement, sides of buildings.
They look frozen, trapped. They don't look happy.
Their eyes bug out. He wonders, Can they see him?
Their mouths are open wide as if screaming.
He wonders how they got there.
Is he next?
These aren't the visions he expected.
6 It's around this time The Elders come.
They are dressed in funny clothing—the style
is wrong—off a generation or two.
He entertains them: they might be angels
lost in Time. He feels sorry for them
because of the clothing: it blows their cover.
He's having fun.
These elders are not like his elders
(parents, teachers, authority figures)
who keep telling him not to waste his mind.
These elders say a mind is a good thing
to waste. Who needs it? Put on God's Mind.
The kid does—puts on God's Mind like a hat,
(this is in the days before virtual
reality) and hears all sorts of things
that confirm his wildest dreams:
Leave the church. Quit your job. Drop out of school.
Simple moral imperatives.
These orders were easy. Not like his elders:
Cut your hair, Go to school, Get a job, and
if you didn't, the big one: I WANT YOU!
He wondered about them—his elders, that is—
why they always spoke in three syllables:
Don't jerk off, Wash your hands, Go to church.
Were they mentally challenged?
Did God make them that way to test him?
7 But where to go? What to do? That was easy:
God's Hat told him: clean out your bank account,
buy reefer, distribute it to the poor
college students. (Parable updated.)
God said they were in the worst shape:
they were Dead. They needed Awakening.
Just as they were getting high on reefer,
God calls in the police. (God is always
calling on the shadiest characters
to do the dirty work. Can't let on who's
responsible—can't blow the cover:
God has a reputation to maintain.)
8 They bust the students and bust their heads.
It's great—Blood is everywhere! The students
wake up vomiting Descartes, fists clenching
the air, shouting: I BLEED—THEREFORE, I AM!
God loves Blood. It Speaks. There's nothing like it.
I BLEED—THEREFORE, I AM: Nice touch, God says.
Good. Very Good. God rolls up the sleeves and
fires the Kiln. They were ready for shaping,
molding. I'll have them burning in no time,
God says, thinking biblical thoughts like Burn!—
Babylon, Burn; poetical thoughts like
And righteousness will come down like the rain;
revolutionary thoughts like, I will
overturn overturn overturn them.
God is so excited—things haven't been
this fun in many a generation.
There are all these old scores to settle and
these kids seem like just the ones to do it.
They have Faith—they leap to conclusions.
They have Visions—they eat their mushrooms.
They are Holy—they even wear Levi's.
They tell their rulers, Fuck Off! Eat Shit!
without prompting. God really likes that.
The Old Prophets were sure hard to work with—
had to be scared by angels, whales, lions
before they would do the right thing, and they
always required a sign from heaven.
Not these kids. They jump right in the gap. BAMN!
they chant—BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY!
BAMN, God laughs. They even mis-spell right.
9 It's about this time the fasting kicks in.
Things get serious. The party's over.
Where do I go from here? he asks.
No Answer. He asks again. No Answer.
The Journey
10 Where do you go when the bridges are burned?
Church, School, Friends, Home—
His past a husk—an empty shell; his wings
too wet to fly though fly he must—
he wings it on faith—
Falls.
How do you take back words? How do you break a vow?
Words. Words! In the beginning
so sweet to taste, now so bitter to digest—
he was having to eat his words,
Walk his Talk. No rest.
No Rest.
Home—he couldn't go there. Home
is where when you have to go there. . .
Home is where the heart. . .
Homecoming. . .
Alone. Ravaged. A wilderness,
inside. He wanders
where he wills, though not his will,
he laughs, bitterly.
God is an acquired taste, he laughs—
Bitterly.
Walking, he finds himself Everywhere
at once. And No Where. Now Here.
At Once. Everywhere.
You wanted Home? This was Home. This was Crazy.
This was The Center where God hung out,
hanging Everything on Nothing
with nothing but Words and
Spit—
Caught in the cleft of the rock
when the rock was struck
the rod came down again
and he became water—a stain on God's carpet.
Or was he a shard of rock on God's floor?
One metaphor was as good as another.
There was no ending or beginning. There was
No Escape.
The Bridge
11 He saw everything: not a detail
was missed. Events bleeding
and blending into each other in almost
but not quite the same circumstances.
He was like an ambassador between dimensions;
like being in many plays at once, happening
at the same time in different spaces—sets, if you will—
and he would Be-There, leaving to Faith the timing
of the entry, his lines to read, the reaction,
the response of the other characters
and his response to them.
It took a lot of Grace to make decisions.
Sometimes he didn't know what to do
or did, but changed his mind.
This caused much grumbling among the angels,
and often, this is when Accidents Happened
that shouldn't have: a car wreck; a fire;
the inevitable souls that needed re-orienting
or re-occidenting, depending on where they came from,
or more to the point, their destination.
The cries from loved ones, How could you do this!
Why did it happen?
The spirits sent out to make it work out in Time
which sometimes took decades.
From Eternity all Timelines were happening at once.
Letter from God's Country
12 What I'm going through cuts the heart's core:
It's opposite the verse about home being the place
when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
It's the place when you find yourself there,
you know you've been abandoned.
It's where Faith flees and Doubt, an occasional visitor,
announces it's moving in with all its baggage.
But this is nothing compared to the real
Terror. That's when your soul knocks down Heaven's
Door in a last desperate attempt for
Clarity, Sanity, Mercy—anything
but this place where you are where Nothing is—
and there's God having tea with the devil,
discussing You.
You see, you really weren't expected
to make it this far, this close, but you did.
Now you Know. This is what it means,
Then shall we know, even as we are known.
We are God's kids: the ones filled with crazylove.
We're like those wind-up toys that, when set down,
go straight for the edges, cliffs and borders
where the action is; where the danger is.
And God, being God, can't resist showing
us off to whomever stops by for a chat.
God is a proud MamaPapa. Watch this—
Your car is stolen; the check never arrives;
You lose your job; your lover leaves; your pet dies.
Time to pray. But God's on holiday
in the master suite of a swank hotel
sipping Free Will, watching you on cable,
not knowing—really not knowing—the outcome.
Abandonment is the surest sign God loves you.
— Richard Cambridge
Author’s note. “The Book of Psalms” is the first chapter in PULSA—A Book of Books, (Hanover Press, 2006).