You turned into a flowing clock
dripping down the wall,
which had a bulge and curvature
like a time-hued ball;
and I fled
down streets of jasmine scent
through catacombs of the dead
where thoughts were bent
around a singularity,
attractive, charming, strange,
the focus of an orbit
that time and space deranged
until it curled and flowed
like some mobius made of worlds,
like a string of crystal globes
through free-fall hurled.
And you were still around me
like the breezes in the air,
touching my thought and passing
in games of truth or dare,
and one point drew me on,
a magnet drawing steel.
I, who am but a pawn,
the check of life could feel
until that gentle point,
wild and sublime,
turned a clock into a flowing face
and turned back space and time.
Half Asleep in a Thunderstorm
I lie in bed at night,
a fan above my head;
my mind whirls round and round:
I dream that I am dead.
The darkness all around --
a blanket on the brain;
my heartbeat in my ears --
the pounding of the rain;
I watch the world go by,
leaves upon the gale,
in visions of lost time
before the lapse of tale.
The darkness thunders softly
as I drift here in my bed,
half in the world and of it,
half out of it and dead.
The skies are gray today; but what of it?
Every gray sky has blue sky above it,
and warm light.
When gray clouds are done
a burst of splendid sun
springs down, clear and bright.
The bread is broken on the table;
into the cup is poured the wine;
by this word the Word our Savior
becomes the substance of the sign.
Adam's flesh from fleshly Adam
freed from sinful flesh once more,
for we, by blood and by slain body,
are flesh and blood with Christ our Lord.
Speak, my tongue, of His scourged body,
blessed and broken for our race,
of pricelessness of blood now flowing
to pay our price and grant us grace.
Sing, my voice, the song of angels
as they wonder at his tomb,
which, with side-sprung water flowing,
encompassed us to be our womb.
Love, my heart, the changeless ancient
who descends from God above
to be a babe and passion's patient;
He is God, for God is Love.
Trust, my soul, in Truth most holy:
Truth is true and does not lie.
Free from lie, from lies He freed us;
see the sign Truth truly died!
Hope, my spirit in your Savior,
who is life, in dying lives,
and is given by the Father
to be this bread that life can give.
Shout, my sisters; shout, my brothers!
From the housetops make it known.
Tell the tale on every mountain;
own this well: you are His own!
Beyond the first awareness is the seed,
source untouched by any craving need,
spark forever steadfast in its light,
constant in reflection and in fight:
thinker is but thought, and doer deed.
Sacred text in hand, the lion waits;
teaching is the path through golden gates
that reaches other realms and then
the byssal depths of light no thought can ken.
One question given, answers dissipate.
Lion for reflection on the plains,
Free of deep delusion, in the rains
looks out on golden grasses and the sky;
golden eyes outlook all things that die.
This self once overcome, no self remains;
thoughts that know no craving know no pain.
How many men are fallen, sons of men,
how many dead and dying
in great Ascalon and Tyre?
How many widows crying
where blood flows down like water
from a horse's smashing hoof?
How many youths lie dead, O sons of men?
How many in the grave unwed,
where roses grow, and poppies,
on these bloody fields of war?
How many, O ye nations?
How many slip to darkness,
each face to be seen no more?
How many men are fallen, sons of men?
In starlit skies, bright and shining,
Mars has wandered to work his will;
the wolves on the plain are howling,
carrion-vultures take their fill.
The formless hand its word has written;
mene, mene, tekel and parsin,
no longer is it hidden.
A name is branded on children's faces
as they laugh and as they play,
and you have branded it, sons of men:
"Quick pickings, easy prey".
An angel in heaven was flying
to and fro o'er all the earth;
an angel in loud voice crying,
"How many, O sons of men?"