To begin with, I don’t know
Why this hasn’t been done before;
Perhaps this topic is just so
Difficult to master that your
Previous teachers lacked the focus
To properly present the matter to us.

In any case, I can’t be blamed
If you fail to understand;
I, for one, will not be shamed
If you find my words too bland;
For a lack of glitter, truth be told,
Is not in my case a lack of gold.

Now if it seems I’ve left loose ends
You can’t figure my conclusion
I think that we can still be friends;
You’ll learn to love my smart illusion -
You only came for words, words, words,
And hard work, baby, is for the birds.

I (vile syllable!) asked for this,
True. My goal was never bliss,
Though I would be hard pressed now
To determine exactly what or who
And by what means, how,
Exactly, I did in fact expect from you.

I asked for the sword, to bleed
When you became my only need;
Or did you? There’s the rub, ay.
You have put me to confusion,
Compounded by my propensity to lie
(Only ever to myself). O, Illusion!

Did I ever in fact enter the mystery
Or have I only recast history?
Have I been duped? If so,
It is surely you who have done
It. But, I have allowed you,
You’ve already, finally, won.

The pain of doubt doubles
And again, exacerbating troubles
In proportion to the gravity
Of the thing doubted;
Is there a secret depravity
That I, ignorant, have not outed?

You know, and I do not.
There is a heavy, smothering, hot
Cloud of thundering sadness
Here, in my secret heart.
As ever, to discover gladness
Is beyond the scope of my poor art.

But, to stop is death,
And so we march on, weeping,
Forward, with every haggard breath
Recalling at least that we’re alive

The fog may yet clear, dear heart

Give me one word, two words
And we’ll give the thing a name
Learn how to point a finger
And we’ll find someone to blame

Give me one thought, two thoughts
And we’ll think the whole thing through
Craft a sentence punctuated
We’ll decide what will be true

Give me one minute, two minutes
No time that you will miss
We’ll make an art of waste, you’ll see
We’ll manufacture bliss

Or

Take one heart, your heart
And mine will make for two
Love will make them whole again
A sailboat we will crew

We’ll cut ties with the mainland
As one set out to sea
Knots undone, sails unfurled
The deep waters, you, and me

With hook and line we’ll win our meals
We’ll bake beneath the sun
And life, for all its labors hard
Will be already won

Man is a drowning fish, he cries
Because he lacks the strength to fight
The waves of noise and his own lies
While he knows that in truth’s stark light

His weakened lungs would fail to fill
Lacking now all natural strength
Having sacrificed his poor will
To demons whom he knows, at length

Were promising him naught but dust
Yet nonetheless he made the deal
And trembles now, for so he must,
Smitten by wounds he cannot heal

Flying not to his secret soul
For that sanctuary has been
Defiled, it is no longer whole
The enemy has been let in

And one fears to wade past that stream
Of mere half-conscious surface thought
Pretending rather life’s a dream
Instead of the nightmare we ought

To face, for in the mind’s deep heart
Conscience promises solitude
Inescapable, and to start
Is to be finished. Attitude

Cannot avail us here, pretence
Is futile; only a real flight
Into the desert, sans defence,
Resolve to stand and die, to fight.

Sister, I tremble in the shade
Of your impending absence feared
Its shadow looming ominous
Sister, does anything ever die?

Brother, this place that we have made
Our garden mutually beloved
And all things must pass to dust
Brother, is permanence a lie?

Sister, if the leaves are golden now
We may be sure they’re soon to fall
We are not immortal evergreen
Sister, you won’t forget to pray?

Brother, though I know not how
I’m sure souls needn’t finally part
But did the poet weigh his words
Brother, can nothing gold e’er stay?

Sister, gold is too precious for rust
But listen to the call, ahead
We cannot neglect our course
Sister, are you glad you came?

Brother, although part we must
And suffer heart-strings joined to cut
Love, still whole, knows no regret
Brother, you won’t forget my name?

Sister, though the country’s breadth
Brings doleful separation on
Love’s memory scorns the divide
Sister, is it not true?

Brother, O, it feels like death
When love bridges the awful gap
It splinters, weeping, grieves the loss
Brother, what can I do?

Sister, dear, look to the Bread
The cup divine, I am outpoured
Souls mingle in the Victim’s blood
Sister, shan’t we run this race?

Brother, I see now in the Head
His every member blessed and joined,
And so unbound by space or time
Brother, there we shall embrace.

Absalom usurped the throne
Ungrateful for his flesh and bone
His heart as cold and hard as stone
Declared his father’s house his own

Absalom, who in his greed
The fourth commandment did not heed
Rode his horse at breakneck speed
Anxious to see his father bleed

Absalom, who would not see
The just way for a son to be
From all good sense with haste did flee
And ran his horse right through a tree

Absalom is way up there
His feet are dangling in the air
Caught up in branches by his hair
Round the tree men stop and stare

Trapped Absalom, the young upstart
Had no one there to take his part
Joab armed with deadly dart
****** it through the young man’s heart

Joab thought the victory won
The messenger did gladly run
The King’s question was only one:
What of Absalom, my son?

The messenger confirmed his fears
And David weeping manly tears
Mourned his son’s lost unborn years
To cut the heart of each who hears

I heard that Russian tongue but once
Slavonic syllables spilling with facility
From the lips of a venerable old man
An aged Croat friar reciting poetry

His eyes shone with that joy authentic
Which is the sweet fruit of deep, long, suffering
A happy man who remembers pain
A brave man who has not forgotten fear

With sly wink and a mischievous grin
He reminded his shocked parishioners
That his schooling was not Croatian
That his youth was Yugoslav

Naturally, we asked about that red time
When red meant a new order
When red meant fire burning churches
When red meant martyr’s witness

But he only ever said one thing:

“They killed thousands of priests,”
Was how he summed up the wrong,
And with a grim grin he added simply
“But… we were strong.”