Sunday Service ends
At 12pm
Then the real work begins
As we spill again Back into the streets haggard exhausted refreshed and replete
With woes anew and friends to-be across
Quiet Avenues, down shaded alleys
Flowing out against the stream of sheep
The sleepy flock returning to the fold
to shelter in silence amongst those akin to them in deed and ethos,
in desperate need of a story to keep them Hopeful and meek
Predisposed of problematic predilections,
specifically those of intuition and indiscretion
preposterously posed as sins
Of the flesh and fuel for fires
Of hell and regret.
Fearfully they weep
into folded hands and
ask forgiveness for being
beings built upon wants and needs
Apologizing
to the empty space
they find above them every time
they search the skies for signs of life
To help them sleep
Then again, to the body immaculate
Interred inside their hearts and heads for
Abandoning the plan,
Hopelessly
And as they rise a song erupts
Resonant in joyful harmony
A eulogy
of sunny Sunday-Fundays past
Here, on this dark Monday night, we gather together to remember the light and the warmth it bestowed upon all of those
to whom its loving glow befell.
We celebrate it joyfully
In this our moment of reprieve faithfully awaiting its resurrection to peak across the horizon , Signaling the return
of the goodness,
We remember.
For this we gather here together
to stave the darkness off a moment
longer than we can
Alone
Awake
Await
The day Is breaching
And dawn arrives to singing trees
I’ve, several times,
chosen to find
myself, in quiet repose,
Penitent, seeking
The holyness I never came to
Truly know. It’s a Shame.
Really
It’s a beautiful thing
Yet escaping me.
Close enough to see
But quicker than I can catch
Wisping air just out of reach
Tempting me to touch
And darting in retreat.
Ghostly as it goes
Unfettered by us living things
Spectral faith does not a living god create
In temples
Intempled
in transparent scenes
aglow from without
within A sacred space
deified in name
And nature
Composited
from such
enigmatic dreams
As those that drive a man to drink
And those that teach the deaf to sing
Dreams that die without delight
Dreams the scream and cry and bring
To life the lost experiences left to fester
Undelivered, in the slip stream
Among the dashed potential
Rippled by inertia
And shimmering
Into oblivion
As it dissipates upon the surface of
The river styx
And laps against the shore before you
Mere inches from your feet.
Where are we
Hear I am!
Is this me?
or is this something else;
Unconnected to that poor disheveled corpse bedeviled by its missing link
Bedazzled in glittering emanations of reflected life-force self-scattering
Left slumped among the litter
Gathered for collection
In decaying heaps.
That poor thing surely can’t be me
Because, here, I am. And there, I ceased to be. And for better or worse, it’s better for me
To be here and NOT there,
that doesn’t look like anywhere
I would think to find someone like me.