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.

Agape

There are no windows here,

or, if you prefer, all are windows.

Continuous glass, crystal walls –

airy barriers between the inside and out.

 

Telephone, in the back room, by the lamp.

A new voice in the receiver;

sounding like Christmas when he was young.

 

(I am wholly undeveloped; my arms

are still reaching for the surface.)

I am glad I am not here alone.

 

Ice has been forming on the panes.

Outside it is winter, like a postcard

from family now living abroad.

I press my cheek against the glass,

if only to remind myself of their faces.

 

What are we if not a single body?

Who are we if not a bride?

When we’ve finally stepped outside,

bare feet in the melting snow, we’ll see,

there never were windows to begin with.

Outside is all we were,

all we’ll ever be.

Verdant Hymn

There’s a welling up, as of waves,

in me, but also without me –

I am only a member of the swell;

a vessel, uproarious with delight

as the waves pass through me.

 

Sweet energy! Glory! Rebirth!

Laughter and mirth are all we are

in these streaks of redemption!

 

The taste of a silent, still buzz

of electricity fluttering in air,

like the first rays of Spring’s sun;

the quiet hum beneath sparrows’ song.

 

The clear, fragrancy of the beginning

to vernal eternity, telling us – nay!

Crooning to us:

            winter was well worth waiting through.