Category Archives: Poem

Martyred

        Martyred

Ah well for this physical body!
—Being a big shot is so very hard
—But so is being invisible in this world.
Better to take this one immortal chance
And live forever.
—No more taxes or floggings,
—No more reminders to do what must be done
—No more hunger or human desire
Frankly, given the alternatives,
Feeding a hungry lion once, seems better
Than feeding the cruelty and endless cravings
Of Romans and Christians
For day after dreary day.

Imagine all this, just being eaten
By a creature acting precisely as he was made
Will prove to my desperate fellow believers
That things unseen may actually have being,
That God is indeed a god,
That Christ is most truly risen
Just because our bones are gnawed upon by cats.

Now everything is solved,
I never was the type to love, or turn the cheek,
Or look inside for kingship or glory.
But this I can do, pretend there is no pain,
Imagine that the loss of living is no loss.
And they find it impressive.  Good,
I’ve always thought
I’d be good at dying.
And all the silly goats
Will bleat that this process
That tears me limb from limb
Shows how the Word made flesh
Turns human flesh to dinner —No,
Shows how the unseen flesh gives much greater pleasure
Than flesh that is dying.

Let them think what they want.
I’ve always wanted to get more attention.
—Now that will happen.

Poem – A Garden of Shirts

2013 May 12, 2013 DO1_5083 Vintage - how many hearts were in them_

A Garden of Shirts

In these no doubt some hearts were broken
Lasers scribbled their crimson trenches
Like swords of flame.
And yet hot tears and passions cold
did not bleed through these palimsests.
They flowed,
And since, stopped writing,
Crinkled arroyos sprouting
After the wet season, followed by the dry
numbness as fruitfulness
became disillusion.

Perhaps there followed acceptance of the sad,
Inevitable decline
From humming youth
To humdrum age
And its unavailing platitudes.

Still one may gaze at these and think how tender
Some were, at some moments, some of the time
As they looked for glad evenings.

And maybe with these wrinkled skins discarded
As sloughed by snakes
Discarded therewith also was their youth’s unknowing.