Alter Christus, Alter Vir*

For Reverend Angelo J. Liteky

He died three times, for other men
Who lived because he died – once in Indochina
Once in his vocation, and one last time
Forgotten in a poor hospital bed

Soul-wounded in the false, incessant wars
Humanity inflicts upon itself
Fallenness falling again, ever fallen
And the ever-falling fell upon him

Though he lifted his love - always for others -
He died again – and who will live for him?

Socially Engaged Poetry

As an effective tool for advocacy
Creating partnerships and sharing skills
A voice to the voiceless, Split this Cliché
Empowerment to the empowermentless
Through bleats of provocation and witness
Copyrighted and stereotyped
In a World That is Forever 1968
Exploring and celebrating the many ways
We can score yet another guilt-grant
Asserting the centrality of the 501C3
Through bearing witness to diversity
As long as it behaves itself and thinks like us
Accessible and yet authentic
A n d l i k e d o s t u f f w i t h s p a c e l i k e u no

cause       spaces

                                 are authentic, and,
   like  


                 stuff
Poetry as a living, breathing art form
If you listen, you can hear its respirations
Gasping in the long, dark night of group-think
Obedient to a mission statement
And the careful construction of resumes
Committee integrate complexity
Formula dampens the authentic voice
Perform this vital work imagining
Personal and social responsibility
Revolutionary transformation
Write and perform this vital work support
Of human social justice experience
Grounded in holistic spirituality
Flouting the patriarchal something-ness
An act that requires community
If you love freedom, you dare not disobey
And let all the people say “Cogent!”

Save the Date

O how I do hope you will Save The Date!
It’s a special occasion, so don’t be late
Be sure to sign in with the guard at the gate
I leave on the twelfth; I simply can’t wait
That’s when I’ll be executed by the State.

*Registered at Coffins ‘n’ Stuff, Thibodeaux’s Funeral Home,
& Jardin d’Memoires and Gift Shoppe

The Admiral Who Tells the Youth of America to Make Up Their Beds

One is pleased to note that an admiral
A brave example of American exceptionalism
Who commands emails and fleets and his resume’
Possesses the skill to make up his bed
Give him another shiny medal for that
That should keep him amused and out of your way

A sailor and a monk must make their beds
At Reveille and Matins, dutifully
Subject to obedience under oath
For tidying up is a liturgical act
Each act in its own small way leading to
That one great Way of God’s eternal love

But if you’re not a sailor or a monk
You may well be blessed with a lover to kiss
A dog to pet, a child to love, a cup
Of coffee to be embraced passionately
Make celebrating the dawn with indolence
Your oath of obedience to needful things

Mussed pillows are fine for laying down your head
So
Disobey the admiral – don‘t make up your bed.

Air Raid

Wings
Extended for the angle of attack,
The predator powers into his dive
And falls upon his target just as dawn
Lights up the scene and drives away the mist.
The mockingbird launches himself into
And through the air defenses of the cat,
Who claws the air with furious, futile strokes
As the eternally insolent enemy
Sweeps back triumphantly into the sky,
A looted dog-food pellet beak-pinched away.

The dog
Is unimpressed, and so resumes her sleep.

Santa Fe: La Conquistadora

In the long ago La Conquistadora
Conquered us, without conquering at all;
She sits in state among the roses of spring,
Our Gentle Lady liege, Queen of our hearts.

Llano Estacado

Escarpments and grasses forever and ever
Alive beneath the grey forever-sky,
Creation tumbling ancient elements
Into horizons upon more horizons,
Deep silences, from when there were no worlds,
Seldom interrupted, even by the nations.
The dawn wind sings a circle of low stones
A palace long before Coyote came,
The evening wind sighs through a picture rock
A language that was old when the moon was new.
A little crucifix bought in a shop
Near a wharf in Spain, and blessed by a priest
In haste for breakfast after early Mass
Lies near a fragment of a horseman’s boot
Above an arrowhead knapped from traded flint
Below a broken blade from a pocket knife
And a doll’s head torn by a very bad boy
Along a railway that follows buffalo
Not far from the historical marker
Where a pizza box leans against a fence.
But here on the Llano Estacado
Escarpments and grasses forever and ever