Dear Lord, Christ, I have known you my whole life
as the God of the Jews.
I have met you in the home of my mother as the Lord Christ.
You have walked with me in my youth,
slapping me in the face with the hand of an evangelist,
you destroyed my foundation and inspired me to relinquish all I knew.

My Christ it is hard to accept you as God
when I have known your Father
for so many more years.
How is it he disguised himself in you, as you?

You have brought to my doorstep
Mystics, poets, great men of vision
only to have them wisked away?
Was it my lack of faith?
My resistance to you?

I believe in you,
but I can not believe in you.
You have shown yourself to me,
but others deny me that.
Was that your blood I saw in the air?
Was that your voice showing me the firmament on the hill side?

My walk with you will be alone
No other gives validity to my understanding of you.
I will walk with you in question,
asking you,
knowing you are there, so many have told me,
believing as your gifts for my life unfold.

Our gentle relation
you've answered all my prayers.

A cascading effluence of seasoned moments
spilling while twirling
neath the light and the heat of sand's sun,
a whipping windstorm blowing sand's grains throughout the land,
coloring the whole world in tiny stones
for to filter our weeping.

You can not come near me here in this oasis of lashing,
razor tongue, razor mind,
you lunge to strike at will then sooth it by some song of coo.
Not one more tear of my flesh will be made by you.

My body stays spinning midst this desert's painful wilderness,
wringing out one inflicted cut, replacing it with a wound more pure.

Never fear boy
your smile radiates until
I will never forget.

Your taunts and lies,
jokes and riddles,
I pocketed them
in my ****** sac
and hoist it over,
heavy with so much
of your confusion
and uncertainty.

You see, my love,
I love you where
memories hibernate,
preserved, mummified
into timeless coffins.

Run your legs
walk them straight,
my shattered heart
still pulses helplessly strong,
ruthlessly onward,
even after you turn your
tender feelings and lay them  
in the arms of another.

A frozen house stilled mid life,
while the lives within shed
blood from a tear mid stride.

hearts stopped beating,
loving strokes suspended mid brush,
her dappling with the voice of another
pulled her love into adultery's pouch.

his seduction cloaked in friendship,
his lie of never leaving,
his deception of his true nature,
he could have known he would never love her.

her home barren of noise of family,
empty, gutted, a winter's frozen shell,
she will lie now in the out lands upon the ground,
freezing alone, unforgivable, a harlot, wishing, hoping for death.

There is something about the texture
of a thought meant to heal
over the thought that
tears open and destroys the mind.

Pushing an agenda that needs no pushing
only simple loving,
simple ethics,
time of waiting,
allowing all good to work
in it's own course.

When the pure squeezes
out from between the
grip of controversy,
breaking free,
making it through
to clean breath,
it was not your strife or challenges
that dealt that win,
just the quiet innocence of nature
in it's own course.

you won't take responsibility in the role you played
in destroying my relationship.
You invaded my sacred home,
I let you in loving you.
Why did you enter in the first place
when you knew it was the home of another man?

my dearest poetry world of poets,
did you know there are anti feminists out there
who hate women who moan and ***** about their good men?

Did you know there are German supporters
who cry for the shed blood
after WWI.
Germans massacred by armies
bodies melting in the asphalt.

Horrors certainly.
Death of all men,
except those who should die.

Loss of value of all men,
women should love their men more.

I sit in the dark on these issues,
until just recently.
The illumination burst in my eyes,
I was shone the annihilation.

Yes, men die, they are whipped by the tongue of the woman,
they are wasted and not cared for in a manner suited by men.
Men have a life, so much so, we may not play a role in the show.
We may not fit their needs,
and so to the slush pile with us we go.