cars on the road
flurry by me
in huff and hurry
like hell and fury
as though the world
were nearly ending
which it is
Though every good thing passes, look for a farther shore!
The dying of the one good makes another to endure.
God is born in Bethlehem, and God is crucified;
but promise rises yet again when promise is denied.
The seed-husk falls away that sprouting stem may live:
so falls away the prior good, its very life to give.
You may call it dark evangel but this gospel does not lie:
the flower bursts to blossom -- and in its blossom dies.
But every flower's fading is fruition of a life
and mediating labor that births the fruit to light.
And in a dusty manger far beneath a Magi's star
a doom is writ and graven that no mortal hand can bar
in living proof of glory that the wise will not ignore:
though every good thing passes, there is a farther shore.
Weird with wild wormwood
lightly bitter in my taste
the triune in my body
is deeply interlaced
and I am green as glory
with bewitchment in my soul
as I wait inside the glass
for the God to make me whole
Wild and unruly
a danger to the sane
I stand upon the wasteland
as I wait for crystal rain
raindrops fall down slowly
as sweet and cold as ice
pure heaven interfuses
and I louche to paradise
A Woman Slew Me Yesterday
A woman slew me yesterday;
it happened in the usual way,
a noonday knock upon the door,
a word or two, a settled score,
a spear of ice to pierce me through.
You know it well, for she was you.
No, not a word of hot defense!
Every killer must repent
however justified the blow.
But sun still shines and rivers flow,
and though your insults shot me through,
every day we live anew.
Let us not be trapped by pride;
let us set the harm aside,
and let us love with zeal, not pain,
until you kill me once again.
Sooner or Later
Sooner or later we all have to face,
in the great competition of life's urgent chase,
there are really no winners. We all lose this race,
no matter our talent, no matter our pace.
Sooner or later: yes, but how long?
The race may not go to the swift or the strong,
but we think some may win. There we are wrong.
The bells in the steeple toll loss in their song.
But maybe the race is not meant to be won.
Time is the swiftest; no feet can outrun
the pace of its step. But look at the sun
and tell me it's pointless, this life and this fun.
Maybe the race is supposed to be lost.
Where is the worth in the work without cost?
And through endless storms our souls would be tossed,
our hearts be made hard by cold winter frost.
Or maybe the point is to learn how to lose,
how to let go the past, every wound, every bruise,
how to capture true joy, or better yet choose
a life with more colors than victory's hues.