Reading the Bible by Moonlight

September 15, 2010
I actually attempted to read by moonlight. It was early morning, the moon was full and bright, but not bright enough.

Reading the Bible by moonlight
words are blurred and smeared
on a not so white surface
only thing clear the white space
the margins that surround ink
jot tittle blend indistinguishable
from alpha and omega

Dawn, increasing clarity;
words are ordered in steps.
O's are opened, I's made straight;
more white space is evident
in the pores of the P's and the Q's:
each letter clearly delineated.
Even the punctuation is comprehensible.

Which Came First?

July 5, 2010
Just saying...


Why debate eggs?
Sperm is the real issue.

Big Bang

July 5, 2010
This started as a quick assignment in Creative Writing 238. We were instructed to quickly write a list of sounds, select one, write a descriptive paragraph. I selected "car crash" and wrote what I could remember of sounds from a car crash that I had experienced. Looking for notes to another story, I found it and noticed poetry within the text. All of the lines are pared down from the original. As I arranged the lines into a more poetic form, I saw new meaning in the words. Creation. Thus, the last stanza.


no picture before
the attenuated screeching of rubber on pavement
no visual prior
to the dull, unmetallic
                                             thud
of grillongrill
absence of images preceded
cr unc hin g of g la ss
whOOOOOOOsh
exploded into
temporarily sightless eyes

a chasm of time
interrupting
the normal flow of traffic
darkness turning around
blindly facing a new direction
dust and gas and twilight
intertwining
in the confining atmosphere

stumble out coughing
have i been in an accident?

Looking Through a Glass Eye

May 31, 2010


          Glass eyes are cold.
          Glass eyes are hard.
Stored in velvet lined boxes.
Regular sanitary attention required.

Rainbow beams of prismed light
stop short at the painted pupil.
Corrective lenses only
focus on reflection.

Reflection
is dependant upon the angle
of the head.
Depth perception
comes up short.
Peripheral is one-sided.

For all of its anatomical accuracy
          of size and shape
and artistic quality
          of color and depth
it is still
not attached
to the optic nerve.

The Color of Piss

May 8, 2010
OK. This officially brings me up-to-date.
This poem, believe it or not, is based on a teaching of Christ. It's not what goes in a person's mouth that defiles them, but what comes out. Matthew 15:1-20 and Mark 7:1-16.


I believe
you can tell a lot
about a man
by the color
of his piss.
It's not orthodox.
It's fundamental truth:
a man's piss
don't lie.

Knew a man once
while in the Navy,
been up all night
drinking Bud in a can;
had to piss in a cup
next morning to prove
other substances were
not in
the system.
The cup held a nice
amber shade
with a half inch head.

This other fellow
been around the block--
a few times--
said everytime
he whizzed
burned like hell.
Had ulcers, too,
or something--
gut felt like barbwire
flossing his insides.
Not sure
of the final prognosis,
but his whizz
had a faint
reddish-orange tint.

There was a guy
worked hard,
did his best;
double shifts
got the best.
B complex
seemed to help
(Red Bull wasn't around yet,
but has a similar outcome).
Came out of the men's room
proclaiming
“My God!
My pee
is neon yellow.”

I am
lately drinking
more water.
Clean water.
Spring water.
Filtered and unflavored.
My urine
is getting clearer
and clearer.

In the Dark

July 13, 2009
Seems like everyone who came to Jesus in the New Testament did so out in the open, in the streets for all to see.

Every head bowed,
     every eye closed;
confession is made
     to the All-Knowing Lord
who speaks everything
even to himself.

Now if the light is hid
on the hill
and no one's around,
does anyone hear
knees hitting the ground,
or the sound of the silent
prayer? Who cares
if you meant it or mean it,
as long as you come clean;
     it's really a personal thing.

But we're told
to drink of the cup
that's held
and passed around the company
of friends, of strangers, of
God knows who.

Why does anyone else need to know
my business, my religion?
We don't speak of these
at the table.

So I will
bow my head
and close my eyes
because when I do
you can't see me.

Take This Cup

April 22, 2009

This is another in the "Dirty Jesus" series. The opening scene of The Passion of the Christ helped visually. We need to remember that Jesus the man did not want to go to the cross. This was his struggle in the garden. No man wants to endure that kind of torture. It was "God in Christ reconciling the world to himself." (II Corinthians 5:19) "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son." (John 3:16) Our Father in heaven loves us and our sin required a sacrifice. The Christ, the Lamb of God, provided that sacrifice not because "Jesus loves us", but because he was obedient to the Father. "For as by one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many be made righteous." (Romans 5:19)


Take This Cup

…and then you went a little way
into the garden to pray.

I'm sure your students tried
to pray. It's hard work;
they just had a big supper.

But you have big plans on your mind.
God's plan. Not your plan.
Not your will. His.

You are the Father.
You can make another way.
               ("I am
               the way.”)
There has to be
another way.
Where's the ram in the bush?
Your will be done…
in earth…
No!
Let it pass from me.
Please…
make another way.

Falling on your face,
the stench of damp
soil in your nostrils.
Clenching the dirt with white knuckled fists;
force of your fists pounding the pebbles.
Forcing air out of your lungs
toward the darkened heavens.
Sweat pours from dusty pores.
Stinging sweat mingles
with blinding tears;
together flowing
through the dust of the day
forming paths of mud on your cheeks.
Soaked and tangled hair lashes at your brow.
Skin taut against tightened flesh.
Breath. Breathing. Breathe.
Heart beating so fast it
seems to stop
pumping so hard. Too hard.
Blood oozes from sweaty pores.
Great droplets
drip
drop to the dirt.

The angel appears.
Not my will.
Thy will be done.

Take the cup.

Of Priests and Prostitutes

April 2, 2009

My wife Lynn gave out several exclamations as she read this for the first time. I suppose it does border on the "R" rating. But how often do we sanitize the scriptures to fit our Sunday school view. God became flesh and dwelt among us. US. It's not always very pretty "among us". Stuff happens in the "flesh". But Jesus endured. He resisted temptation. And he was victorious. Jesus can sympathize with us. "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin." (Hebrews 4:15, ESV)

I have combined two separate incidents from the life of Jesus; two different women with similar issues. If you have a problem reading this type of material, please do not read the Song of Solomon. I read this book of the Bible for the first time as a single man in the U.S. Navy. It made me blush.


Of Priests and Prostitutes

Thrown down into the dust,
her tunic torn exposing silky thighs
that beg to be touched,
revealing full breasts glistening with sweat,
a glimpse of a nipple.
                         (Come on. You know you want to look.)
Reviewed by the local Sanhedrin,
                         (Are those names being written in the sand?)
they require judgement.
The scent of her lovers still clings to her loins
and rocks are poised
             to pounce,
             to pummel,
             to purge her
sin, their guilt.
Looking past the passion,
the verdict is pronounced.
All are guilty,
one is forgiven.

As evening wraps its arms around the city;
as the sun caresses and deeply kisses the horizon,
she comes to you.
She has nothing to offer you, save herself.
So she kneels before you.
Hot tears spill from her eyes,
moisten your feet.
She lets down her hair,
stroking
your feet
with her thick tresses,
washing away the dust of the day.
Sobbing.
Bending.
Cleavage bared.
Heaving before you.
Were it anyone else…
And we know you were a man.
You were circumcised—
all the parts were evident
or someone would have said something.

They need not indignantly ask.
You both know
who you are touching.

Sheep Dung in the Upper Room

March 30, 2009

I suppose this could be categorized as an Easter poem. It takes place the day of the Last Supper. This is another piece that I want to include in my series concerning God getting dirty. The original inspiration came from one of our pastor's sermons (Cal Woods, Pointe North Community Church, Moncks Corner, SC) in which he related an experience in which he stepped in dog doo and tracked it into a church conference room.


Sheep Dung in the Upper Room

I jump out of the boat
and into the muddy water.
Dragging the boat to shore
silt and sand slide under my feet
and through my toes.
It has been a good day for fishing.
Hauling basket after basket
of flopping fish flinging
water and scales,
I think of the Passover meal
to be shared with the Master this night.

But the nets, dripping with kelp and fish crap,
need to be tended. Sand gnats
nip at my ankles as I hurriedly finish my tasks.
Running up the bank,
wet sand from my sandals
splat my calves. Rushing through
the pasture, tall field grasses slap my shins,
leaving their seed clinging to the sweat,
hiding in the hairs of my legs.

I push through the crowded market
of the multitudes making last minute
preparations for Passover.
The streets are covered
with discarded rotted figs and grapes
mingling with the dust of ages and
the urine of goats and dogs and sheep.
Heedless of where I place my steps,
I almost fall
when my foot finds the fresh leavings
of a sheep.

Vaguely aware of the odor
from my freshly soiled sandal,
I enter the upper room
and partake of the supper
with my brethren and the Master.
And though I try to ignore it,
the trail of dust and dung
I have imprinted upon the floor behind me
is evident to all.

Then,
at the end of the meal
after the bread has been broken
and the wine has been shared,
the Master girds himself with a towel
and washes our feet.

Road Trip

(January 25, 2008)

Staring through the heat haze
               rising from the road in the distance
skewing the view and vision,
               wondering when this trip will ever end
                              'cause you've gotta pee
                                             gotta pee
                                             gotta pee.
And you can't pull over—
               there's no trees,
                              no bushes,
                              no cover.
And the next rest stop is 55 miles away
               with no exits in between.
And the gnawing in your gut
               informs you that beef jerky
               is no substitute for a full meal.
Wish you hadn't passed up
               McDonald's an hour,
                              a lifetime ago.
And what's that noise?
               That rattle.
               That hum.
               That annoying squeak.
Is my roadside service insurance up-to-date?
There's no way I can fix
               whatever that is
                              myself.
Hey! Was that a lion?
                              Really. A lion. On a farm.
                              ? ? !
               A giant Jesus. Carved in butter.
                              Hmm.
               And why would anyone make
                              a ball of string that big anyway?
So, where was I going anyway?
Should have listened to mom and dad.
               Use the bathroom before you leave home.
               Pack a lunch.
               Know where you're going. Have a plan. Carry a map. Use the map.
               Side trips are fun and educational,
                              however, don't forget your destination.
Destination.
Vacation.
Relaxation.
Forever R & R.
Am I there yet?

The Faith of Science

(May 2006)

Were you there?
Did you witness the Bang?
                              or the Boom?
(If no one was there, did it make a sound?)
Was there a bystander
          to the splitting of Dark and Light?
                                        Day and Night?

Did you see
the whorling, swirling, mixing
of rocks and gases,
compacted compounds
(ta da! the energy pill)
                                        (We still have to
                                        figure out where
                                        that little sucker
                                        came from.
                                        What?
                                        It's always been!
                                        Behold!
                                        The Omnipresent Rock!)
become planets and suns.

Was it you that started the clock ticking
to decree the cosmos birthday
to be in the billions and billions?
Start the clock!
          Atomic or planetary?
But wait!
Planets unformed,
          atoms unstable.
Time unmarked, irrelevant.
Rewind.
(The speed of light is slowing
          and the rowers keep on rowing.)

And it's all unconnected—
          connect the dots,
          see the signs,
          imagination unwinds—
your “evidence” doesn't scare me.

I oversimplify?
God!
Maybe it is.

Death of a Prophet (dedicated to Ron Gatrelle; pastor, brother, friend)

(May 2006)

And the man of God was laid to rest today.
The speaker used the word prophet
     with an uncapitalized “p”
     (I don't think he dared).
     He didn't personally know the man—
          the man of God—
          the vessel that
          though cracked and chipped and scratched
               poured out
               what was poured in.
               (How could that hold water?)

Well, they said,
He's dead…
     guess we were
     wrong/right
     about him.

But Prophets die,
(they're not immortal you know)
     and occasionally another one
     comes along behind him.
     (Faster. Stronger. Better than before.)

Besides,
     does the Truth die?
     Do prophesies fade?
     The grass still grows
          after the tree is but a stump.

Anyway,
     the man of God moved on,
     shedding the cocoon of this life
     for the wings of the next.

And whether we liked
     the coarse, imperfect human being,
     (how many true prophets are really well-liked?)
     the facts of the words
          that were not his
          remain.