Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.
The barn, to us, was safety glass
Prisoners talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
them from visitors, visitors being
our parents.
Shrapnel word cacophony
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.
We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.
My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the embers
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to smolder.
4th draft written on 2/17/19
Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.
The barn, to us, was safety glass
Prisoners talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
them from visitors, visitors being
our parents.
Shrapnel word cacophony
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.
We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.
My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the memories
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to linger.
3rd Draft written on 10/23/18.
Why We Need Bad Words
Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.
The barn, to us, was a safety glass
to a prisoner talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
him from visitors, visitors being
our parents.
In a cacophony of shrapnel words
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.
We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.
My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the memories
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to linger.
2nd draft written on 10/16/18. Originally written on...
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
Lessons from my Father
The long silence
of a hanging phone.
His head
the long shut down
silence of the industrial
building casting long
silent shadows
onto the patient earth
who will be there in sunlight
and darkness
long after his voice
is gone,
like it is now,
breathless
perhaps or out
of breath
from his steam
engine heart,
the coal being
shoveled fast, reaching
the abandoned bridge
it will be a swift decent
which was the engine's
plan from the beginning.
Still. I want.
Him. Say.
Something.
of a hanging phone.
His head
the long shut down
silence of the industrial
building casting long
silent shadows
onto the patient earth
who will be there in sunlight
and darkness
long after his voice
is gone,
like it is now,
breathless
perhaps or out
of breath
from his steam
engine heart,
the coal being
shoveled fast, reaching
the abandoned bridge
it will be a swift decent
which was the engine's
plan from the beginning.
Still. I want.
Him. Say.
Something.
A Change in Chaos
The sound of a vacant baseball diamond
and bleachers that have been emptied out
is not the cavernous sound of desolate city,
but more like a farm without animals
and no chores to be done. The quiet barn.
Beyond the playing field there's a woodline,
not far at all; a grasshopper
might get there in three jumps,
with no dreams of grand schemes
just an exoskeleton and something
that might be called instincts.
In the foreground of my sight
I imagine young athletes aiming
to please their parents
or perhaps please the referees,
those poor prophets,
or maybe even to prove and please themselves
and my eyes are pulled to that most indiscriminate
of backgrounds, the woodline--
that hard line between
a man's lawn mower and the wild,
that boundary between backhoe and background,
between backdoor and backwoods,
where order and order meet.
Beyond the white chalk lines
of perfect angles and perfect geometry
I see a vine that fights and twists against gravity
it claws its way up a tree to follow the sun.
This is (the above poem) the third draft of this poem.
Beyond the playing field there's a woodline,
not far at all; a grasshopper
might get there in three jumps,
with no dreams of grand schemes
just an exoskeleton and something
that might be called instincts.
In the foreground of my sight
I imagine young athletes aiming
to please their parents
or perhaps please the referees,
those poor prophets,
or maybe even to prove and please themselves
and my eyes are pulled to that most indiscriminate
of backgrounds, the woodline--
that hard line between
a man's lawn mower and the wild,
that boundary between backhoe and background,
between backdoor and backwoods,
where order and order meet.
Beyond the white painted line
all at right angles and perfect arcs,
I see a vine that fights gravity
and follows the sun.
Originally drafted on 12/24/2015 with moderate edits made here particularly in the second and third stanzas.
and bleachers that have been emptied out
is not the cavernous sound of desolate city,
but more like a farm without animals
and no chores to be done. The quiet barn.
Beyond the playing field there's a woodline,
not far at all; a grasshopper
might get there in three jumps,
with no dreams of grand schemes
just an exoskeleton and something
that might be called instincts.
In the foreground of my sight
I imagine young athletes aiming
to please their parents
or perhaps please the referees,
those poor prophets,
or maybe even to prove and please themselves
and my eyes are pulled to that most indiscriminate
of backgrounds, the woodline--
that hard line between
a man's lawn mower and the wild,
that boundary between backhoe and background,
between backdoor and backwoods,
where order and order meet.
Beyond the white chalk lines
of perfect angles and perfect geometry
I see a vine that fights and twists against gravity
it claws its way up a tree to follow the sun.
This is (the above poem) the third draft of this poem.
Beyond the playing field there's a woodline,
not far at all; a grasshopper
might get there in three jumps,
with no dreams of grand schemes
just an exoskeleton and something
that might be called instincts.
In the foreground of my sight
I imagine young athletes aiming
to please their parents
or perhaps please the referees,
those poor prophets,
or maybe even to prove and please themselves
and my eyes are pulled to that most indiscriminate
of backgrounds, the woodline--
that hard line between
a man's lawn mower and the wild,
that boundary between backhoe and background,
between backdoor and backwoods,
where order and order meet.
Beyond the white painted line
all at right angles and perfect arcs,
I see a vine that fights gravity
and follows the sun.
Originally drafted on 12/24/2015 with moderate edits made here particularly in the second and third stanzas.
Monday, October 15, 2018
I Should Go To Bed But Can't Seem To Stop
My dog's eyes are two black, sad caverns
longing for my touch.
Late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die.
My fingers explore the field of fur on her back
the way my brother and I once crawled
through the hay field staying
Late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die.
My fingers explore the field of fur on her back
the way my brother and I once crawled
through the hay field staying
far below the line of sight
where we could feel the earth;
my fingers slowly rushing through.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
My dog feels the subtle shift
where we could feel the earth;
my fingers slowly rushing through.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
My dog feels the subtle shift
of my weight as I make to leave
for bed-- she begins her low whimper,
nuzzles deeper into my lap.
And I stay. For to go to bed
would be a kind of death.
nuzzles deeper into my lap.
And I stay. For to go to bed
would be a kind of death.
This is the fifth draft, posted above.
My dog's eyes two sad caverns
longing for my touch
late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die.
My fingers explore her fur-field
the way my brother and I once crawled
through the hay field staying
late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die.
My fingers explore her fur-field
the way my brother and I once crawled
through the hay field staying
far below the line of sight
where we could feel the earth,
my fingers slowly rushing through.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
My dog feels the subtle shift
where we could feel the earth,
my fingers slowly rushing through.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
My dog feels the subtle shift
of my weight as I make to leave
for bed-- she begins her low whimper,
nuzzles deeper into my lap.
And I stay. For to go to bed
would be a kind of death.
nuzzles deeper into my lap.
And I stay. For to go to bed
would be a kind of death.
This is the fourth draft (posted above), tweaked on July 31, 2019. Only minor changes, but I think somewhat significant,
My dog's eyes two sad caverns
longing for my touch
late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die.
My fingers explore her fur-field
the way my brother and I once crawled
through our hay field
staying far below the line of sight
where we could feel the earth,
my fingers slowly rushing through.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
My dog feels the subtle shift of my weight
as I make to leave for bed
she begins the low whimper,
nuzzles deeper into my lap.
And I stay. For to go
to bed would be a kind of death.
3rd Draft (written on Tuesday October 23, 2018). Originally drafted on June 10, 2018 and redrafted on Monday October 15th (see below). Major edits made from the 2nd to 3rd draft including stanza changes and removals and word changes throughout.
I Keep Petting My Dog Sport Knowing I Should Go to Bed But Can't Seem To Stop For Some Reason I Know Goes Beyond this Earth
We are like tenants that want to be owners.
The vapor of life can sting
or boar a hole through.
A wooded night with no fire
embedded in the rural stone house
in Rhode Island where things went to die
in the cadaver pond I would later examine;
my dog's eyes (Sport) two sad caverns
longing for my touch
late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die
as my fingers explore her fur-field
the way my brother and I once
crawled through our hay field
staying just below the line of sight
where we could feel the earth,
my fingers slowly rushing through.
Arthur Jones, the exercise equipment inventor,
longed to discuss truth but realized
having a meaningful conversation
is the pinnacle of impossibilities.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
Speaking to her.
Wanting to giver her good news
that comes from God's
very own mouth.
2nd Draft. Originally drafted on June 10, 2018 with some major edits including the addition of most of the second stanza.
Dirt, Worship, Plague, Far
The incessant plague sound of the power
washer: combustion felt reverberating
from my heart, travelling down the road
of my arms into the radius and ulna,
to pisiform, triquetrum, lunate, and scaphoid,
to hamate, capitate, trapezoid,
trapezium, and then on through and on
this violence passed through from generation
to generation.
A deer, its whisper feet passed
poundless through the cacophony
and I, this collection of violence
and nuance went unnoticed.
I felt the engine die
and the engine died
of its own accord.
The people far away
did not care I had been power-
washing the paths and walkways
and tying to make new the through-ways
or how much the muscles encased
in my forearms hurt
and my fingers were beginning to fail.
But the deer engaged in worship
with simple eating of the cut grass
and simple breathing of the cut air,
a near perfect worship; she did not notice
the people I incessantly notice
carrying their weight even
as I clean the dirt of through-ways
blasting it away to somewhere else
but it never leaves.
If only someone could make it go away
and let the deer wonder.
Note: 3rd draft written on October 23, 2018. Originally written on June 17, 2018. 2nd draft written on October 15, 2018. With major changes made to the first stanza and minor changes made to spacing and layout.
The incessant plague sound
of combustion felt reverberating
from the heart to the radius and ulna,
to pisiform, triquetrum, lunate, and scaphoid,
to hamate, capitate, trapezoid,
trapezium, and then on through and on
this violence passed through from generation
to generation.
Thus went the cacophony as a deer,
its whisper feet passed poundless through
and I, this collection of violence
and nuance went unnoticed
and I felt the engine die
and the engine died
of its own accord
and the people
far away
did not care I had been power-
washing the paths and walkways
and tying to make new the through-ways
or how much the muscles encased
in my forearms hurt
and my fingers were beginning to fail
but the deer engaged in worship
with simple eating of the cut grass
and breathing, a near perfect worship;
she did not notice
the people I incessantly notice
carrying their weight even
as I clean the dirt of through-ways
blasting it away to somewhere else
but it never leaves.
If only someone could make it go away
and let the deer wonder.
Note: Originally published on 6/17/18 with only minor edits made here.
washer: combustion felt reverberating
from my heart, travelling down the road
of my arms into the radius and ulna,
to pisiform, triquetrum, lunate, and scaphoid,
to hamate, capitate, trapezoid,
trapezium, and then on through and on
this violence passed through from generation
to generation.
A deer, its whisper feet passed
poundless through the cacophony
and I, this collection of violence
and nuance went unnoticed.
I felt the engine die
and the engine died
of its own accord.
The people far away
did not care I had been power-
washing the paths and walkways
and tying to make new the through-ways
or how much the muscles encased
in my forearms hurt
and my fingers were beginning to fail.
But the deer engaged in worship
with simple eating of the cut grass
and simple breathing of the cut air,
a near perfect worship; she did not notice
the people I incessantly notice
carrying their weight even
as I clean the dirt of through-ways
blasting it away to somewhere else
but it never leaves.
If only someone could make it go away
and let the deer wonder.
Note: 3rd draft written on October 23, 2018. Originally written on June 17, 2018. 2nd draft written on October 15, 2018. With major changes made to the first stanza and minor changes made to spacing and layout.
The incessant plague sound
of combustion felt reverberating
from the heart to the radius and ulna,
to pisiform, triquetrum, lunate, and scaphoid,
to hamate, capitate, trapezoid,
trapezium, and then on through and on
this violence passed through from generation
to generation.
Thus went the cacophony as a deer,
its whisper feet passed poundless through
and I, this collection of violence
and nuance went unnoticed
and I felt the engine die
and the engine died
of its own accord
and the people
far away
did not care I had been power-
washing the paths and walkways
and tying to make new the through-ways
or how much the muscles encased
in my forearms hurt
and my fingers were beginning to fail
but the deer engaged in worship
with simple eating of the cut grass
and breathing, a near perfect worship;
she did not notice
the people I incessantly notice
carrying their weight even
as I clean the dirt of through-ways
blasting it away to somewhere else
but it never leaves.
If only someone could make it go away
and let the deer wonder.
Note: Originally published on 6/17/18 with only minor edits made here.
A Man
A boy in the gloaming.
A man is a gadfly gathering,
always gathering.
A boy wanders the night paths
amidst the shadow of trees
and star-branches.
A man sits pondering
always pondering.
A boy subdues a forest
passing through its tunnels
and mud pits
skimming and plumbing
a creek's mysteries.
A man is left with nothing
always nothing.
This poem was originally drafted on 6/24/18 and presented here, nearly unedited.
A man is a gadfly gathering,
always gathering.
A boy wanders the night paths
amidst the shadow of trees
and star-branches.
A man sits pondering
always pondering.
A boy subdues a forest
passing through its tunnels
and mud pits
skimming and plumbing
a creek's mysteries.
A man is left with nothing
always nothing.
This poem was originally drafted on 6/24/18 and presented here, nearly unedited.
"Jesus's death was both the saddest thing and happiest thing that happened."
Sixteen thousand nine hundred
distinct people groups.
Topsy-turvy
winged-fury
hurry furry
furry hurry
burr and burred
scarred and blurred
bleary cheery cherry
scary.
A whole galaxy in a drop
of water one thing brings life
another destroys
Vishnu and Jesus
Oppenheimer and Churchill
Weston and Ransom
Bultitude and Scar.
My daughter feels bad
squishing ants.
distinct people groups.
Topsy-turvy
winged-fury
hurry furry
furry hurry
burr and burred
scarred and blurred
bleary cheery cherry
scary.
A whole galaxy in a drop
of water one thing brings life
another destroys
Vishnu and Jesus
Oppenheimer and Churchill
Weston and Ransom
Bultitude and Scar.
My daughter feels bad
squishing ants.
The Idleness of Idols
What do we praise?
A man bashing his body against
another man's body
and if bones are broken
we first cheer?
Or a man who pretends for years
to be many others?
Or the CEOs who abuse, oppress,
and profit, whose children are chaff and fodder
and hindrances?
The idleness of idols
do not move us
or perhaps move us towards
self-destruction.
Originally drafted on July 15, 2018, with only minor edits here.
A man bashing his body against
another man's body
and if bones are broken
we first cheer?
Or a man who pretends for years
to be many others?
Or the CEOs who abuse, oppress,
and profit, whose children are chaff and fodder
and hindrances?
The idleness of idols
do not move us
or perhaps move us towards
self-destruction.
Originally drafted on July 15, 2018, with only minor edits here.
Friday, October 12, 2018
Jesus Is
Food-eater
Humanity-dweller
Breakfast-preparer
Vinegar-taster
Meal-multiplier
Tear-dripper
Water-walker
Heart-hardener
Friend-befriender
Storm-be-stiller
Kingdom-bringer
Bread-of-lifer
New covenant-establisher
Spirit-sender
Sky-ascender
Church-founder
Death-destroyer
Enemy-maker
Friend-creator
Stranger-welcomer
Enemy-turn-awayer
Life-giver
Life-taker
Blood-shedder
Ear-opener
Ear-closer
Heat-opener
Heart-breaker
Blow-taker
Sin-absorber
Death-diver
Wrath-taker
Empty-outer
Filler-upper
The above is the third draft of this poem.
Jesus Is
Meal-eater
Breakfast-preparer
Vinegar-taster
Meal-multiplier
Tear-dripper
Water-walker
Friend-befriender
Storm-be-stiller
Death diver
Wrath-taker
Kingdom-bringer
Sin-absorber
Bread-of-lifer
New covenant-establisher
Church founder
Death-destroyer
Blow-taker
Enemy-maker
Friend-creator
Stranger-welcomer
Enemy-turn-awayer
Life-giver
Life-taker
Blood-shedder
Ear-opener
Ear-closer
Heat-opener
Heart-hardener
Flesh-taker
Emptier.
Filler.
Originally drafter in my journal on 10/7/18.
Humanity-dweller
Breakfast-preparer
Vinegar-taster
Meal-multiplier
Tear-dripper
Water-walker
Heart-hardener
Friend-befriender
Storm-be-stiller
Kingdom-bringer
Bread-of-lifer
New covenant-establisher
Spirit-sender
Sky-ascender
Church-founder
Death-destroyer
Enemy-maker
Friend-creator
Stranger-welcomer
Enemy-turn-awayer
Life-giver
Life-taker
Blood-shedder
Ear-opener
Ear-closer
Heat-opener
Heart-breaker
Blow-taker
Sin-absorber
Death-diver
Wrath-taker
Empty-outer
Filler-upper
The above is the third draft of this poem.
Jesus Is
Meal-eater
Breakfast-preparer
Vinegar-taster
Meal-multiplier
Tear-dripper
Water-walker
Friend-befriender
Storm-be-stiller
Death diver
Wrath-taker
Kingdom-bringer
Sin-absorber
Bread-of-lifer
New covenant-establisher
Church founder
Death-destroyer
Blow-taker
Enemy-maker
Friend-creator
Stranger-welcomer
Enemy-turn-awayer
Life-giver
Life-taker
Blood-shedder
Ear-opener
Ear-closer
Heat-opener
Heart-hardener
Flesh-taker
Emptier.
Filler.
Originally drafter in my journal on 10/7/18.
Friday, October 5, 2018
A Prayer to Receive God’s Word Before Reading Jeremiah 31
Ears plugged with wax and dirt,
An immobile heart rusted in stone.
Eyes willingly closed, binded, inert,
No desire deep down to the bone.
Melt me, shape me,
mold me, create me.
Drench me with a longing thirst,
For you my cup, cool running river.
Unbind these cursed, parch-sealed lips.
May I drink deeply from the giver.
Open me up to let you in,
cut me with your two edged sword.
Your words and tongue pierce the skin.
I am healed by your Word.
Originally written and posted on October 3, 2012
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