JOHN'S TALK

JOHN’S TALK


Bogged down now,
I am unable to picture the heavens as anything more
Than some old textbook,
Flat-line drawing of a sun-centred universe.

My hands are dirty; I have been on the floor.
The hurt which had exploded upon my shoulders and head was
A whole lot greater than I had been led to expect.

I refused to step forward and cross their glossy white line.
I would not declare Caesar is Lord,
No pinch of incense from me.

Later I discovered that I had spent a month in the prison-hospital.

OK I survived the physical assault,
Plus then the five years I spent in jail.
I have learned to pray and give thanks.
But across my heart there is a very bad scar.

Darling, things for us will never be same.
Were Mar’s worship not so fiercely organized,
How far we might have traveled in each other’s company.

A distant childhood memory persists.
Now whenever I shut my eyes
I see the bodies of robins brought down flat upon their backs,
Done in by a thin, white layer of a late-April snow.
Out from icey orange/red breasts their feet stick straight up.

What silence envelopes me, not a whisper of wind;
How might my heart stir, 
when not one other thing before me moves?

BLUES, Deep and Bad

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BLUES,
Deep and Bad




I got the blues, tonight, honey.
I got the blues, deep and bad.
You have gone and soon I leave,
I go abroad for a long, long stay.
I doubt we see each other ever again.


I sit at the end of the bed.
The bedroom couch is gone,
Much of the art is removed and sold.
The furniture arrangement, I must report,
No longer resembles anything that you once knew.
The whole apartment looks different,
Not at all the same, nothing is the same,
Since the time you dwelled and laughed with me here.


Now living in a dream world
I need not close my eyes,
I picture you as you stand in your white hotel slippers,
And wash grapes under the faucet in the kitchen sink.


And my loving you, it frequently comes to mind.
That we had fallen and broken apart,
No words reach the depth of my regret.


Listen to the music coming over the TV.
Oh, sweet momma, daddy,
Daddy has caught himself a wicked case of the blues.
Horns worry a lower pitch, run semitone in a six note scale.
The drum loops hit my entire bodily frame,
And when I fall, drop within myself, my soul clamors,
'A middle note is missing.’
My heart’s down, the shuffle strokes are down,
The rhythm accompanies the lyrics, all of it is down.
How did it all go wrong?


How did it all go wrong?


I doubt we see each other ever again.
I go abroad for a long, long stay.


I got the blues, tonight, honey.

I got the blues deep and bad.

ADAPTED FROM GURU NANAK*

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ADAPTED FROM GURU NANAK*

Do not for a moment think that

I show disrespect should you find me

Having fallen asleep with my feet pointed to the East.

Do not be angry, instead please turn them

In some other compass direction

Where our Creator does not dwell.

And if you see me in the holy Ganga

And I throw water opposite to the rising sun,

Know that I mean to show love for all my neighbors,

Wish to water the fields of my western home.

*The founder of the Sikh religion, he was born in Lahore province, the Punjab, 1469.  Although he was a great teacher, he considered himself an ordinary mortal, and wrote, "I came in the course of nature, and according to God's order I shall depart.” d. 1539.

WHAT HOPE MIRCALE!

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WHAT HOPE OF MIRACLE!

Darling, can it really be true?

Had we been so wanton in our disorder?

All I remember –  it was a Tuesday,

And very warm for the end of January.

In our house we smashed all the crystal goblets

And then proceeded to break each and every bottle,

The vintage spilled out on the floor;

It stained and then sunk into the old wooden boards.  

And at this point how does it matter?

Remember the story when Jesus at the wedding feast in Cana 

Honored His mother’s request and turned water into wine.

The party had run out of the most important beverage.

Six great jars filled to the brim (more than a hundred gallons),

Then He told the servants, ‘Now draw some out...” 

He had them take the draft to the chief steward for tasting.

And lo and behold now the new question  

Instead of first, why had the best been served last?

Would such miracle do us any good?  

Look around. Shards of glass surround us, 

Just shattered cups, and bottles whose necks are broken.

All bounty meaningless,

When nothing left, no vessel remains to contain it,

Yet Mercy attends and announces His ministry.

PSALM 51: 10-12, Freely Adapted

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PSALM 51: 10-12, Freely Adapted



Clean my heart, my Lord Almighty,
And renew right spirit within me.
Allow me to known the immediancy of Your presence,
How Your light brightens the way.
In You alone is the triumph over the darkness.
Restore for me what joy of Your creation
That I might give thanks for every breath I take. 

YET ANOTHER LOVE POEM

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YET ANOTHER LOVE POEM

Who do you love the best

Me or one of the other boys,

The others who have been part of your life?

I believe you love me for my poems,

And the other guys because of their good looks.

Excuse me! I am sure that I know

How those former lovers write.

I would wager, their compositions stink!

They are schoolboys at their lessons.

Their vocabulary weak and grammar amiss.

Their voice never amounts to truth

For they have not learned,

They are not practiced in language of the heart.

A girl like you would never fall,

Never give herself over to some inconsequential chap,

Even were his house rich in goods,

Or if he had a ton of money in the bank.

Honestly, I doubt that it would be worth

Any man's while to court you, useless, I would say,

Unless he had verse at his command.

You will have poetry in your life, and soulful adventure.

You will have love, above all else, love! No!

Not artful, not postures of love, but absolute love,

All-out, heedless, besotted, running a muck,

Head over heels, love, as if, you were God-struck.

You will have an ardency whose heart-beat mirrors

The atomic steady of electrons about a nucleus,

An affection which possesses an endurance

Beyond any artifact of marble, any work of bronze,

And puts to shame the pretense of those ancients,

The builders of the pyramids of Egypt, or those others

Who had disguised their vanity by erecting stone and rock

Into monuments of heights and circles,

What sophistry they practiced,

As if they staked a claim of victory over time!

The love you will have, its heart has a color and brightness,

Same as those beacons from the farthest reaches of space-time,

A light by which all other lights are measured,

Yes, an endurance which has its match in the starry images

Travelling since just those few moments after Creation,

So lovely, so lasting, though all else around it, dark and foreboding.

Too bad, honey! Too bad for you!

You must know, and would you, please,

Tell the other suitors, please, think on it a bit,

Who is the man, who may compare, or even place

A reasonable second in the ultimate competition,

Who but me might win the race for your heart?

Sorry! But it's over, no choice,

It is just the luck, the fate which has befallen you.

Its story line, no earthly origin, not an everyday script,

The author knows when the sparrow falls,

He has count of the hairs upon your head.

He has conceived the architecture of the heavens.

Understand, accept, and willingly embrace Wisdom,

Let me call it, Destiny, and proclaim,

You have won the election.

A bright new day floods the horizon.

Mercy on whom mercy has has been granted, and

Compassion on whom compassion has been bestowed,

Not by any act or exercise of human volition.

But by the power of heaven and its justice.

THE WORD

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THE WORD, A Lover’s Exhortation
                                           

Well!   What do you say, honey?
I believe that I say it right.
It is God alone Who knows
The one dimensionality -- the real tragedy --
The empty when we call upon the soul.

Only He can quell the hunger, quench the thirst.

But, sweetheart, hey!  I tell you now.
Forget it!  Fly straight!
Think of the Frick with its fabulous El Greco,
Small though that one painting is, it amply captures the fury,
When Jesus castigates the money changers.

The Word is clear.

 

No man may serve two masters.
God loves the prisoner, the downcast, the lame.
He loves the lilies of the field.
Grass need not care how it clothes itself.

Though great it may be to be King, what profit in it,
When the first shall be last and those with least,
Most, and beggars shall inherit the earth,
And children be fountains of wisdom?

We have seen the sorry example, what terrible precept!

Celebrated priests and magistrates have not known the Lord,
Yet once He had stood right there before them.