Cobweb in the Church Rafters

August 11, 2009
The inspiration actually came from a cobweb in church. I kept seeing this cobweb from week to week in the steel beams and ductwork and conduit, all painted black, of our church sanctuary. Our worship service is fairly modern with stage lighting and songs/graphics on two large screens, and the lights would make this cobweb glow. And for several weeks it was as if the Lord kept pointing it out. It made me laugh.


A single thread
of dust clothed cobweb
cluttering a corner of the ceiling
     of the sanctuary;
stretched
from one indeterminate spot to another;
glowing in the spotlight
amidst the twinkling dust motes;
swaying in the breeze
     of air conditioning

in                                   the light             and out of
bending, curving                                   moving in the darkness
like an optic fiber                                 hidden, invisible
carrying the light                                  in the dark

this fine filament
eluding the scientific mind
     from being
     recreated;
its tensile strength and elasticity
unmatched in the material:
yet, the flick of a finger,
the wave of a hand
can cast it down.

Someone needs to dust.

It's Still A Mirror

June 19, 2009
I'm currently taking a couple of college courses, working toward my first degree. In English Composition II we recently read the poem "Mirror" by Sylvia Plath. Somewhere in our analyzation we briefly discussed what a man might see. Well, needless to say, the creative juices started to flow and I thought "what if a man had been the person in this poem?" It may be helpful to read her poem first (click the link above).


It's Still A Mirror
(If Sylvia Plath had been a man)

I am polished and precise. It is
     what it is.
I devour what is before me
Regardless of form or fashion.
I just show it like I see it.
My days are spent pondering the wall
     that cannot see me.

Now I am a still running stream.
A man stands beside me, searching
     for the spring, looking for the outlet.
He could take me or leave me.
He doesn't remember what he saw,
Only what he thinks he saw.
He still sees the youth within the ripples on the surface.
And the terrible fish hangs as a trophy on the wall.

I see the wall more often.

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.

Gettin' His Hands Dirty From the Start

(March 10, 2009)

I was really tired that night. Really tried to sleep. I was already in bed when a line for another poem I was working on came to me; so, I had to write it before I lost it. Then another thought for another poem (I had notes for 2 or 3 in progress). I brought the flashlight into the bedroom so I wouldn't disturb Lynn. I really wanted to sleep, but if the inspiration kept coming I wanted to be prepared. Yet, I really wanted to sleep. This was merely part of a list of poems I would like to write exploring the divininty within humanity in the form of Christ or more precisely that God ain't afraid of getting dirty. I only slept for 3 hours that night.


Gettin' His Hands Dirty From the Start

I was out in the field the other day
just lookin' things over—
it was such a nice day and all.
I was just kickin' dirt clods,
when I came across one
kind of looked like my Grandpa Massey.
And lookin' at that clod of dirt,
               that looked like Grandpa,
got me thinkin'
about something I read in the Bible.

And in the beginning
there wasn't much of nothing.
So God made something,
and comparatively speaking,
it was kind of messy.

And the angels stood back,
amazed and afraid,
as God rolled up his sleeves
and stuck his hands elbow deep
in the mud.

Now to you and me
this mud was about as clean
as any mud can get.
After all, it's God-made mud.

But to God, who ain't had dirt
tracked into his kingdom for ever
('cept for maybe that Satan fellow),
mud is mud.

But he done it any way.
And by the time He was done
moldin' and pattin' and shapin'
this stuff,
He had done made a man.

Well, He wasn't quite done yet.
The fellow wasn't quite alive.
So what does God do?
Now at this point,
when the angels see God
start to do what He's about to do,
the angels gasp
(that's right—gasp)
'cause God begins to give
mouth-to-mouth to this mud-man.

And lo and behold,
the guy starts to breathe.
And to walk and to talk.
And he names all the animals
and tends to this garden God made.
And then he ends up
doing something stupid later on
that gets him kicked out of this nice place
to places where he has to break up clods of dirt.

But God really took a shine
to this guy anyway.
And the angels are still amazed
at how much God cares
about these walking clumps of dirt.

Me.
I kicked the clod that looked like Grandpa.

To Be A Man

(March 20, 2003)
Be warned. This one is a little raw. But it's part of the question.


What does it mean
     to be a man?

Is it shafts and cams,
     oil and grit?
Breaking your knuckles,
     sweat and spit?
The gridiron, the nine iron,
     the hoops, or the stick?
The pigskin, the sheepskin,
     the foreskinned dick?
Jack-of-all-trades or
     Master of one?
Phd-ed, MBA-ed,
     learned on your own?

Macho? Bravero?
Mucho? Camero?

Does it take a slow hand
     all night long?
A five minute cameo,
     dance and a song?
Is it the size of your penis,
     your paycheck, your car?
Is it time spent with family,
     your hobbies, the bar?
Should you leap tall buildings
     in a single bound?
Have feet firmly planted
     here on the ground?

Do real men love Jesus, like quiche, hate pink?

Must you be a beer guzzling,
     belch busting,
          gas passing,
               son of a bitch?
Or wine tasting,
     palette cleansing,
          reflux suppressing,
               proud to be rich?

Do you have to be hawk-like,
     bull-headed, wise as a snake?
Someone please tell me
     what does it take

     to be a man?