Plaster Saints and Whited Sepulchers

Ah,

I see where I am, now
I perceive what I am in, now

Two Way Street, in Two Face Town.

I have traveled here, for a time
too long. I believed, in signs on my side of the street.

Too blind to see and perceive,
that the goods inside the stores
that fester behind the camouflaged advertisements and shout
“Free! Ideologies, convictions, truths – you’ll see!”
were unfinished, unfounded, precarious, but firmly believed.
They shout with a stink, “who needs perspective, truth, dialogue?
Ha! Indeed. I have all that. I don’t need anymore, see?”

At this point on Two Way Street, I see in the road
A bottleneck. No divider between
drivers, thoughts, and their fists prepared to be freed.
A determined collision between unstoppable
forces, that both claim to be sovereign,
that both live to rule infallibly.

One way words wielded in a joust,
I see,
on Two Way Street, the lie is impartiality
fires roar in minds
set free, from what? The very things they preach.

I shall journey on,
seeking True Way Street
in Nonpareil Town,
where impossibilities are seeded and blanket the ground,
giving rise to the garden of revelation and compromise.
Because in this garden, death and opinion find their beautiful demise.




God’s Pencil

I think that God must be
a writer, a creator so free.

I think, as I write in the sleeping air of eve,
That God must be sitting in
the delicious air all around
and beside me, Him.

God’s presence is harmony: every scent, every sight, sound and purposeful
written in that crushing comfort of love, flowing into us all.

I think God must enjoy,
the feeling of a favorite writing tool.
Inky cosmos in place of a quill.
Stars wielded instead of lead spilled.
And sunsets dyeing
instead of crayons trying
to capture the kaleidoscope of hope
full colors, as God masterfully washes his horizons with
strokes that will time,
and time again, elicit unending awe and scope

In a future, so distant, yet so familiarly far, God waits.
God tells: don’t rush, enjoy this time here yet, You
know to slow, know to pause.
What is correct without flaws washed away,
our eraser remains,
our lessons unlearned, until the days stains are,
and the graphite of regret, is wiped and cleaned
by God’s unblemished.
We, the written, are redeemed.

God’s pencil is life, a tool unparalleled.
We but imitate, impersonate,
and attempt to model perfection beheld.

Our potential rests quietly, unmoving, untapped.
But when the author shares
that his pencil is for us and each other,
that life is in fact also our story to write of, partake of, to wield uncapped
for our brothers,
we dip our plume of love into the hallowed ivory inkwell
and pen a loving epilogue for life
that no ravenous darkness can erase or quell.

God must write,
His signature is upon it.
For who, or what else, could weave a tale
as poetic and tragic and hopeful and careful
as our own;
a mysteriously radiant candle.

Caress

Does the sun also walk?
Does it search, does it wander?
It warms like a hearth,
Gives light as they ponder

But the sol also aches
As it yearns to partake,
in communion with nature
Among kinsfolk nurtured

Branches arch,
Gnarling, and dancing
With direction and inflection
Respite from infection

Does the sun also walk?
Caressing limbs of a tree
A path, a trail, a journey
Along the reaching leaves

Roots in the sky,
Give sol paused time
As it crawls, as it slides
Up, along,
And side to side

Does the sun also walk
Like us, tempestuous clocks?

No indeed
The sun also walks,
But has no need,
Of victory, or challenge, or aching and heat

No indeed
The sun also walks,
Along the tree’s sky reaching roots,
To add luminescence, and shadowy shoots,
To the stretching fingers
Of it’s friend’s mighty frame

The sun also walks
With no thing in mind,
But making even more beauty,
Of this figure in kind

I was inspired to write this amateurish poem by both the way I’ve seen sun land on this tree on multiple occasions, and by the book On Poetry by Glyn Maxwell. I don’t believe I’ve ever written a poem, and I depressingly low grasp of the mechanics of poetry, but I made one that at least feels right; one that at least conveyed the thoughts of the Sun I had this evening.