Courage is grace
Grace under pressure

I saw it written  
In a florist's book

As I walk down the street
I see my old friend

He greets me cheerfully
And somehow he laughs

He's going to be fired
After thirty odd years

Grace under pressure
Grace under pressure

Each day I rotate
And I spin and I turn

How can I create?
Can I create?

I need to give more
Be more, learn more

Turn my old heart
Inside out

Get what's within me
Onto the outside

I can’t hold it in
I have to release

No matter how ugly
Life's not always pretty

Sometimes it's sick
Unhappy, unholy

But that’s what it is
That's just what it is

I will wonder aloud
How to use my power

In which direction
To focus my strength

To be as I am
Just as I am

And pass days with dignity
One then another.

The Dragon Blood tree
On the isle of Socotra

Stands tall and quiet
Uncomplainingly

The Dragon Blood tree
Shows grace under pressure

It lives as it should
Courageously

After the preaching’s
Done-finished
Picking at the scabs
Of our guilt,
At week's end / day of rest;
Just when we almost had it
Bygone / Forgotten
From our minds...

           It's a kinder kin to amnesia
A softer fog of fugue,
A healing art of our brain farts,
Not soaking in shame's
Diminishment
Or stewing in self-helps.

"Deliver us!"      (bow down genuflect)

But then again
Here we are together to gather
Uncomplainingly
Complacently listening
Absorbing every lash
Of the metaphorical whip,
To be guided back to good

Such sermons for the flawed
humans that we know
We are -- unworthy...
But willingly we suffer
The word.
Oh how to be just like
The lamb...

So now, afterwards, when we have been
Emotionally & verbally punctured
Full of hollow
We are holes unworthy
Of being
Made whole...
Or so, we've been told
"It is written."

Now then let us meet for
homily
After King James harangues us
His version of fellowship,
Let us have verbal
******* with the word.
(Begotten?)
Perhaps over supping
Or during beer & NFL
Or some blood
Sport
Non-emasculating,

Reminding us how
Weekends roar
And Life is
Worth more
Than the inner wars
We are ourselves
Fighting.

After the sermon,  
Let's have true verbal
*******...

(Without be getting a shred
Of guilt)

I am the rain,
Holding my skirt,
I descend from my abode,
To be with you.

I tap on your windows,
Hoping you'd see me,
Waiting for you to embrace me,
So I could be with you.

I wish you would want to listen to me,
To the secrets I have to tell,
And I uncomplainingly wait,
To breathe songs into your ears.

I slide down your hands,
Savouring every little inch of them,
If only you'd wrap me around your fingers,
And make me stay.

But you don't,
And I slither down you,
I glide past your windows,
Flow down your walls,
Drip down every thing that's yours,
I slide away
Away
Away...

After the preaching is

Done-finished picking at the scabs

Of our guilt,

At week's end / day of rest;

When we almost had it gone

Forgotten

From our minds...

It's a kinder kin to amnesia

A softer fog of fugue

A healing art of our brain farts,

Not soaking in shame's

Diminishment

Or stewing in self helps

"Deliver us!"          bow down genuflect

But then again

Here we are together to gather

Uncomplainingly

Complacently listening

Absorbing every lash

Of the metaphorical whip,

To be guided back to good

The sermon for the humans that we know

We are -- unworthy

But willingly we suffer

The word...

On how to be just like

The lamb...


So afterwards, when after we've been

Emotionally & verbally punctured

Full of hollow

We are holes unworthy

Of being

Made whole...

Or so, we've been told

It is written.


So then let us meet for homily

After King James harangues us

His version of fellowship,

Let us have verbal

******* with the word.

Perhaps over supping

Or during beer & NFL

Or some blood

Sport

Non-emasculating

Reminding us how

Weekends roar

And Life is

Worth more

Than the inner wars

We are ourselves

Fighting.

After the sermon,  

Let's have true verbal

*******.

(Without a shred of guilt.)

My black inked voice
Sticks, hesitates, stutters
But these blank pages
Still listen uncomplainingly.
They forgive my
Broken, whispered, catching
Words and remember despite
Fraying leaves, shattered spine, rusty cover.
This book, this stalwart pen, this frail retreat.

After the preaching is

Done-finished

picking at the scabs

Of our guilt,

At week's end / day of rest;

When we almost had it

Bygone

Forgotten

From our minds...

           It's a kinder kin to amnesia

A softer fog of fugue,

A healing art of our brain farts,

Not soaking in shame's

Diminishment

Or stewing in self helps

"Deliver us!"      bow down genuflect

But then again

Here we are together to gather

Uncomplainingly

Complacently listening

Absorbing every lash

Of the metaphorical whip,

To be guided back to good

Such sermons for the flawed

humans that we know

We are -- unworthy...

But willingly we suffer

The word.

Oh how to be just like

The lamb...


So afterwards, when after we've been

Emotionally & verbally punctured

Full of hollow

We are holes unworthy

Of being

Made whole...

Or so, we've been told

"It is written."


So now then let us meet for

homily

After King James harangues us

His version of fellowship,

Let us have verbal

******* with the word.

(Worship)

Perhaps over supping

Or during beer & NFL

Or some blood

Sport

Non-emasculating,

Reminding us how

Weekends roar

And Life is

Worth more

Than the inner wars

We are ourselves

Fighting.

After the sermon,  

Let's have true verbal

*******...

(Without a shred of guilt.)

HOMILY


After the preaching’s
Done-finished
Picking at the scabs
Of our guilt,
At week's end / day of rest;
Just when we almost had it
Bygone / Forgotten
From our minds
           It's a kinder kin to amnesia
A softer fog of fugue,
A healing art of our brain farts,
Not soaking in shame's
Diminishment,
Or stewing in self-helps.
"Deliver us!"      (bow down genuflect)

But then again
Here we are together to gather
Uncomplainingly
Complacently listening
Absorbing every lash
Of the metaphorical whip,
To be guided back to good
Such sermons for the flawed
humans that we know
We are -- unworthy...
But willingly we suffer
The word.
Oh how to be just like
The lamb...

So now, afterwards, when we have been
Emotionally & verbally punctured
Full of hollow
We are holes unworthy
Of being
Made whole...
Or so, we've been told
"It is written."

Now then let us meet for
homily
After King James harangues us
His version of fellowship,
Let us have verbal
******* with the word.
(Begotten?)
Perhaps over supping
Or during beer & NFL
Or some blood
Sport
Non-emasculating,
Reminding us how
Weekends roar
And Life is
Worth more
Than the inner wars
We are ourselves
Fighting.

After the sermon,  
Let's have true verbal
*******...
(Without be-getting a shred
Of guilt).

After the preaching’s
Done-finished
Picking at the scabs
Of our guilt,
At week's end / day of rest;
Just when we almost had it
Bygone / Forgotten
From our minds
           It's a kinder kin to amnesia
A softer fog of fugue,
A healing art of our brain farts,
Not soaking in shame's
Diminishment,
Or stewing in self-helps.
"Deliver us!"      (bow down genuflect)

But then again
Here we are together to gather
Uncomplainingly
Complacently listening
Absorbing every lash
Of the metaphorical whip,
To be guided back to good
Such sermons for the flawed
humans that we know
We are -- unworthy...
But willingly we suffer
The word.
Oh how to be just like
The lamb...

So now, afterwards, when we have been
Emotionally & verbally punctured
Full of hollow
We are holes unworthy
Of being
Made whole...
Or so, we've been told
"It is written."

Now then let us meet for
homily
After King James harangues us
His version of fellowship,
Let us have verbal
******* with the word.
(Begotten?)
Perhaps over supping
Or during beer & NFL
Or some blood
Sport
Non-emasculating,
Reminding us how
Weekends roar
And Life is
Worth more
Than the inner wars
We are ourselves
Fighting.

After the sermon,  
Let's have true verbal
*******...
(Without be-getting a shred
Of guilt).