Christian?

AN OPEN LETTER TO
THE MINISTER AND CONGREGATION
OF THE WESTBORO CHURCH

I think that GOD has turned his face from you.
You are like children who want notice at any cost.
What you say is not Christian,
or God-like, or even human.
I am afraid you are lost, bound for bitterness and hurt.
You have forgotten God. You have forgotten the face of your Father.
You have forgotten your brother and sister.
(Your mother doesn't even like you.)
Where in the Holy Book does it say to despise the warriors?
Where in the Good Book does it say God embraces the death of anything?
Read to me where God says it's ok to hate.
You are warping your soul, giving Christians a bad name.

Should poetry mean?

I guess a poem is supposed to mean something, be true.
You need to put stuff in it, memories or flowers or parents.
It should resonate like a whack to the funny bone.
What happens when the poems won't be written down.
You stare at pictures of your mother, remember the smell
of your Grandfather just in from the barn.
The little arrow blinks at you, like an engine at idle,
the screen blank and white,
and you wonder where your gift left for,
and will it be back,
will it still speak to you.
Sometimes a poem doesn't need
to matter to anyone to mean something.

When things move beyond us

There will be a day, I think, I guess, I know,
when the fires of the flesh bank and burn low.
One day the fireworks will end.
Let us on that day be friends.
I would rather marvel at the lines of your face,
hear your stories, and let my heart race
to the smell of you, and the way you fit
all my curves and bulges when we sit
and watch movies and sip wine from the bottle.

So maybe our hackles don't raise anymore.
Less the heavy breathing and more the s'mores.
I guess it comes down to the end of wanting to run.
You have long been my friend and at times the one
who shared a sense of the darkness that seems to hover
at the edges of the day, and offer if not sunshine, cover.
There is something to be said for knowing sanctuary
is familiarity and routine and sameness; you know; ordinary.
Watching movies, drinking from the same bottle of wine.

Tucson

Tucson, I remember you as a beautiful city.
The roadside stands where you could get a warm beer
and a burrito as big as a football
for a few dollars.
The old Pima Indian women making fry bread
covered in cactus jelly in the shadow of the Spanish Mission.
I feel for you in these hours.
Great Spirit keep hope in our hearts,
care for the ones lost and those left to grieve, and please,
please let us learn a lesson this time.

1.

On most paths in my life
there are places to rest,
giving me a chance to gather courage.
I can resume, or not, as I wish.
Not on the trails of pain.
I’ll not do those who stumble
along with me the disservice of claiming
it any further by naming it.
There is no place to rest,
no place to turn back to.
Yet for all that it is one path,
no one walks it with me.
Others on the path see me,
cry for me, pray for me.
So it is that my path
is lined by trees that mock me.
Then I see trees in the hills
that bring me much hope.
I then see only kindling
for one last flame of frustration.
I see bones stripped
by a wind that never ends.
It may happen that I
drag my pain through a desert,
or along a path by a great sea,
waves counting out my heartbeats.
But all I see
are the lines chiselled into my forehead
and the lines hammered at the corners of my mouth.
All I see are talismans.
Each cross, each crystal,
each star or feather or stone.
All I see is the knowledge
of no going back.
No chance to share the burden,
no end but death or life,
no answers.



2.

There is a trash man
that follows behind us who walk.
I picture him like a person in a park;
large blue bag slung over one shoulder,
stubble of cigar jammed in his mouth,
long wooden rod with a nail sticking point down.
He walks slowly stabbing everything
we thought was so important, putting it in the bag.
Snag a thick portfolio of stocks;
countless key rings to large houses and BMW's;
clothes from the Gap, diamonds and emeralds,
silver and gold, platinum and rare china.
In the bag.
I imagine that the farther he follows us,
the stranger the trash we leave.
A lucky rabbit’s foot, a rosary,
a tattered picture, names of the dead.
A cheap locket, a strand of hair,
a pocket knife.
Then there comes a time when
things start to thin out.
Now we are to the real things.
A letter asking or giving forgiveness,
the last will and testament of a life.
A flower sealed in wax paper, a wedding ring.
Or maybe the offerings end long before this.
I wonder then if he dances a little jig
to celebrate finding the end of pain is not always death.
Or does he know the path will resume down the way?
At the end of his shift or millennium or life,
or when he tires of the burden of carrying our treasures,
what does he do with all the fine shiny golden useless stuff
he has carted so far?
Does he keep them and pawn them,
or has he learned what is most important
cannot be carried, or lost?

Been down roads

Redemption Road ain't in this neighbourhood.
I've walked so many side walks
I know this for fact;
Streets do not forgive.
Streets remember.
The Law life lives by is this:
The only certain thing is this moment.
I have walked down roads.
Known little of the peaceful life.
From one uncertain day to the next,
among strangers I sought shelter and safety,
however brief.
At a Bible Rescue mens center
my immortal soul was traded for
three meals, a pack of smokes
and a ride to the highway.
At a Salvation Army
I napped in a pew through
three hours of fire, brimstone,
and the bloody word of God.
Poor God.
I knew if it was up to Him
He'd pull the blanket up around my shoulders,
pat my head and say
"'Night son. I'll see ya in the morning."

The Great Land Hurricane Of 2010

These winds,
the late October winds,
hollow me out.
There are so many scents,
each one wakes a part of me.
I do the work of the day
but I am elsewhere.
It's like time travel.
Each leaf is a name
of someone whose life
I drifted into and out of.
Every one beautiful,
their faces so bright.
Swiftly grown,
swiftly gone.