Fourth Sunday of Epiphany

I am told to breathe

to the rhythm of a hammer and anvil

like a clock clanging not quite

in waking nor wholly in dreams.

 

Kneeling. Prayerful hands pleading

too loudly, the second hand resounding

            in the silence. Kneeling

 

here on a thinly carpeted, unforgiving floor,

past and future, ancient and unborn

impugn upon the present, disrupting

the tempo of the march of saints.

            I almost miss it.

 

I crumple the epiphany and

thrust it into a pocket

            and pretend

 

that truth is in the silence,

rather than creased and wrinkled,

desecrated in the lining of my jeans.

 

But if I continue striving to remain static,

in the end I’ll enter glory an unfinished statue.

Forever giving, never added to;

a textureless face with insufficient features painted

            on like wood-grain linoleum.

 

We sense it in the clanging and cringe.

“Seek quietude,” the billboards bray.

We follow, until on a quiet Sunday afternoon

we empty our pockets in the wash

to find a pallid epiphany washed out

            with the loose change.

Prodigal

I haven’t written a poem in four months. I haven’t written a song in four years. This is probably a bit rough, considering how long it’s been, but the lyrics came to me while listening to Shovels and Rope walking back from class. Enjoy, and feel free to critique, post thoughts, or praise. I like praise; administer it liberally.

I’m on a long walk home I don’t want to make,
the heat of the day makin’ my bones quake.
I’m shootin’ looks into every gap and alley
seeing men countin’ days, and every mark and tally
sayin’ I’ve got more steps ahead than I can take.
 
I can’t smell the roses above the compost,
I can’t hear music the way it’s composed.
The sun’s under cover for fear I’ll discover
she’s naked with the moon under silk covers,
hidin’ shame for what she is when she leaves her post.
 
But if for one brief moment I could see the sun
just long enough to let me find someone
who’ll let me know
I’m not alone,
well, maybe it’ll be alright.
 
I’m chasin’ demons off a mountain I never knew was mine;
achin’ for a fence so I can work to pass the time
and secure a destiny that’s been set down from the start.
Damn! This life of ours could be a work of art
once we bathe in the Jordan at Zion’s borderline.
 
Don’t say I didn’t warn you: external peace, internal war.
What you hear in my chest belies the footfalls on the floor:
the steps I take into the door of my childhood home.
It’s the opposite of hell but heaven’s let me roam
until I, the prodigal, returned to knock and enter the door.
 
And if for one brief moment I look the other way,
I’d see a long path and hear somebody say,
“I’ll let you know
you’re not alone.”
Well, baby, it’ll be alright.

Damaged Cell

a membrane between worlds

impenetrable yet viscous

like a spider creeps across the water

I’ve barely touched the film

 

barely touching I’m trapped right-side-up

unable to sink unable to see beneath

the mirror surface of the water

 

I crawl on all fours

while the water scrapes my hands

and knees and the cell wall dividing

is breaking and cracking with

a sound not unlike a child’s whimper

 

you know the kind of cry you gave

when you woke up alone in the dark

 

as a child I sat at the lakeshore on grey mornings

throwing stones disturbing turbid waters

my feet only half submerged in doubt

“I’ll Alert the Media”

Hey everyone!

This is just a notice to make all of my readers aware that I’ve just made a new blog devoted to deep thoughts in a more prose-friendly environment. I’d love it if you all went and subscribed to that one as well!

It’s wanderinginwonders.wordpress.com.