You, God, are holy
My foes are lowly
Your arms they comfort
And stay with me

My heart is heavy
My face downcast and
My emotions get
Away from me

But praise to you who made the stars
They will shine out your name
This battle is not ours
And you love me still the same
So praise your name

You, Christ, are lofty
Though my heart pains me
I trust in you, ***
You loved me first

Heartbeats-they weaken
The sun will sink and
The dark will set in
But you remain

But praise to you who made the stars
They will shine out your name
This battle is not ours
And you love me still the same
So praise your name
We praise your name

You lift me up above
And down below
To show your love
So we can know

Your garments torn up
You drank from hell's cup
To lift us all up
To show us love

But praise to you who made the stars
They will shine out your name
This battle is not ours
And you love me still the same
So praise your name

Hear the true word in Jesus' name
Life or death
   It's your choice
Live or let die?
Dead to sin
This is Gods win
To say nothing is the same
      as a lifelong lie
To not tell someone about the truth you know in Christ Jesus
          "Oh but" it's always "because"
No! Rebuke the temptation
       of the comforts within
Excuse the excuses once again
Remember Luke 17 verse 3
Forgive your friend
   Tell of the Love that wins
   For God is love and Jesus has won
Forgiveness is key
Give God glory
Commit to the great commission
For God is the defeater of sin

You can see it in their breath
Thumos
Persuade   words
    Relayed   souls
Believe inside
            Faith does reside
Whose ears to hear
   Let listen let learn
Burden again
Salvation will win

Holy River,
to see you
flowing
is to see
Brahman,
with eyes
fully open.

Plunging
into your
sacred self
is to be
forever
embraced,
Ma Ganga.

Torrents of
hard karma
came soon
thereafter,
like a curtain
of biting hail.

Searing pain
of surgery,
and doomed
love, nearly
choked me.

In all that
time, and
beyond
conscious
memory,
my body
was carried
upstream
in your
loving arms,
forever
protected
in you,
Ma Ganga.

Not like a figwort but not an aster, either. Could he be a buttercup
with sepals, no petals, but sepals like petals? Alan is a bluebeech,
an ash if his books sell. Quick shake hands. Zach's bald ok, a
magnolia, cone-like fruits a bridge to his Neanderthal father.
When did Ben become a chestnut lover? It's said women are practical
but there's much variation in their leaves, ovaries. Many are older,
stumps, snags for peckers and porcupines, teachers, feeders, seeders.
What did the wood thrush sing
                                                      teachi­ng its young thrush meanings?

Sometimes a mushroom. Did you know such fungi are mostly protein?
Mushrooms could replace meat, and the dead, the dead's feet, white
as pyrola, could replace the living. Well, we worry. Will we, bad luck,
be extinguished. Denizens of convenience stores think who cares, will
I beat the reaper? Hope sempiternally springs. Things rarely clear
as sun among the sundews. Eating huckleberries from your kayak.
What Paulinaq says is live your life and then your death until nothing's
      left.
Then thou shalt be bereft
                                            of the heavy sackcloth of the soil, soul.

Said to Mrs. Buckthorn: good poets imitate, great poets steal.
I think she's more an apple tree. Or pear. Good to eat,
amenable to loving. Rose or Ericaceae, the differences make the
difference. Emerson and Rylin Malone are dead. The dead
are dumb, the dust won't speak. And this deep, dull and dark
blessing's a horizontal reserve. Moonlit. Mr. Hickory is actually a
      yellow birch,
holy and exfoliating. Busy spilling seed on the surface of the snow.
Teaching essay
                       writing, algebra, earth science, branches of government.

I would be a cypress, cedar, branches calligraphy brushes, divorced
      from desert.
It takes a divorce for one to know one knows no one, not only one's
      wife
but your very sons who will always choose the open flower bud.
Good, as they should. Their bones are your bones, strange bones,
      and a
strange selection of their words. They are Uvularia sessifolia (wild
      oats)
and Polygonatum biflorum (Solomon's seal). They outlast the
      holocaust
or not, they're made of matter. These windows need a good
      cleaning.
Leaf-raking. Dusting for ghosts. Ah, sweet peace, perfect rest, there
      are
no ghosts
           adults are trees, teens are shrubs, and children are herbaceous.

I like immigrants, immigration. Legal immigration,
Jane passionately corrects. Actually my goal is a borderless world.
That's a new idea to her.
Gathering the neighborhood like family.
The men discuss sterilizing welfare mothers. I say You're working
      around the edges,
humanity has exceeded the carrying capacity of the planet,
even those with jobs. And spouses. And houses.
Yet it's an idyll of an early summer evening, new cut grass,
two baseball teams of children playing in it. Safe from Pakistan.
News photos of Muslim refugees, women in blue robes, biblically
carrying children away from holocaust. The fundamentalist army
not far behind, beheading sinners, sure in its righteousness
as the Holy Roman Empire.

Somehow Joel Osteen the evangelist comes up
while talking about how the Catholic Church is irrelevant in North
      America,
even Latin America and Africa are going evangelical.
Izzi likes Osteen, awesome extemporaneous speaker, no teleprompter,
up from bootstraps message. My wife says he's probably Jewish.
No one wants to go there.
Fortunately no one claims the Holocaust never happened or slavery
      was voluntary.
What is the carrying capacity of the planet? Two children
have replacement value. In China is it each couple or each adult that gets
one offspring? As life expectancy and standards rise,
family size diminishes. We draw together into greener, tighter cities
surrounded by farms surrounded by forests.
The children of three monotheistic religions, atheists and agnostics
play in city streets, work farm fields, explore forests, deserts,
      grasslands, space.

Two ancient female poets: Enheduanna and Sappho
are a revelation. The clarity of their complaints:
lost lover, lost city.

For the accountant, the librarian, on this cold day
there is no revelation. He will go his own way
to the roar of the tinnitus in his ears.
About our war what is there to say. Yesterday
a flock of bluebirds was the only color in the woods.
Have they arrived too early for their good?
Of Judith and Inanna I have Korf's fears.

Inanna is generous, Judith is dangerous.
On each the wise elders depend for sustenance,
protection. Agriculture is ******
and wars end when men remember *******.
To savor the young woman's thighs and the old one's food,
to water her womb and cut her wood.
Is this not what's real, the actual, the animal?

The women I have known were bluebirds and crows, such
nuthatches, cardinals, robins, an occasional thrush.
They did not consider their bodies holy,
they found my seduction easy. What good luck
on the bed, in the light of the land, in our youth.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.