the choir chimed in
a chorus of rebuke
or stones we'd hurl
abusing the adulteress's skin
shoot your pocket rocks
passing judgment comes down
like diluvial rains splashing
gory-red upon your frocks
it was to be...
her luggage, some water-jars
Samaritan's soles cooked &
cured by partiality &
cancel culture, burying stars
Desert Rose Parchment Gazette
circulated the dame's tragedies
watering-hole purists rebuffed her
like Hester of Scarlet
it was to be...
but five (4+1) days late
the state of death
arose, rank and proud
with results beyond debate
Brother Lazarus' fate sealed
in the tacit tombs
there for the world
and his women appealed
none was to be
ne'er was to be
Oh, Creator of Earth,
& Heavens outweighs the
chains of men's destinies
enters seas of dearth
that i should gain
Your cherubic fiddling surceased:
extemporizing treatises in sands
divining springs quenching pain
How impossibly the author
of Tomorrow and hero
of souls and spine
of faith, the purveyor
of Paradise and mercy
of the made, despoils
death's feats & fervor.
Selah. Let it be.
Within TIMELESS ILLUSION of life and dreams
Where our human consciousness winds its path
Through history and mystery
Establishing the known to answer the unknown
The BLOSSOM of purpose SWIRLING in transformation
Evolves and grows with the grace of flowers
Relying on the breath of nature to take its course
Into some inevitable perfect state
In our will of becoming flawless
our connections EMANATE
from the tides of unforgiving SILENCE
that enfold us
Subject to our chosen pathway of answers
We are RUSTIC and diluvial
Weakened by the weight of SYNTHETIC history
Our development of love holds the greatest truth
Finally, my blood began to coagulate.
I counted up my fingers, and found I had eight;
And so, I'm sorry to say, for me it's too late;
But I'm still alive, and hope to spare you my fate.
Let me stress the importance of kitchen knife hygiene.
Listen up, budding chefs, and you will see what I mean.
If you do not sharpen your knife, you’ll pull and you’ll tug,
And you’ll fight with your food, until you give it a slug.
You’ll cut up your fingers until you’re covered with blood
Which will spurt out from you like a diluvial flood.
Your face will turn white; and then you will fall with a thud
While up on your cutting board remains that dumb spud.
So, sharpen up your knife until meat cuts like soft butter,
But miss and you’ve no fingers in the kitchen to putter.
From diluvial binary code extracted
from white walls lined
the untouchable monastery, the fraction leaked, drifted like
a molted feather
one part
the great machine
one part
flying machine
one part
dove
one part
down to a soil so rich
with language
even heavy reeds challenged words of illiterate change,
an incomplete. But
for how many buttons extracted canary-round’s thread?
Only a father
best known for knowing best in his
walk-away-way delivery could know.
Then there was sky. Clouds rained.
In mud seed took root.
¾ of a weed
grew to knee-high on a grasshopper whispering razz
to filtered soon, and looked:
to the east
there was dark.
to the west
there was late.
Now here is something.
And so it thinks it better to wait for quarter moon.
PUT A FRAGILE TAG
diluvial rain sounding humble washed the snow –
an irritation of the mind in the night of mud
words rolled – rushed spring rivers
waving the lines of a known trail
red spots burned behind the eyelids
clenched teeth until the cheeks’ muscles hurt
paired nights that pained the ego with agony
of making love in the rhythm of a prayer –
just a cursed karma on the cross
shivered body –
the flesh decayed eggplant black –
liquids drained in circles
humiliating me with knowledge and expectations
in the penumbra of a stone – not even a cross –
scrambled ashes cloud me
in a lighter side of banality relearned my fingerprints
carved my stone with a pen –
a fantasy of laughing and crying mother
with a moon like a pirate flag without wind.