Sincere apologies, and some haikus

My goodly readers: all of you have my deepest apologies. My life has been somewhat-more-consuming than I usual, and I confess that my blog has not been highest in my priorities. Whether or not this will be the last confession and the last break from my weekly posts, I do not deign to declare.

I have just finished a rather absorbing book called 'A Song For Nagasaki', which I recommend to all who have the time for such jewels. The book clearly demonstrates what makes humanity great; and what can equally bring it down. Anyone, regardless of nationality, should take some time to read and reflect on this impressive work. But back to the second half of the title.

For those of you who have not heard of the suffering of the people known to the world as Yazidis, I suggest you utilize our ever-resourceful internet to learn more about their courage. And for those of you who already know about them, several of the following poems are dedicated to them.


A girl with a child;
On the news, from far away,
she looked like my friend.

Banners fall and rise,
sometimes black as a dark night;
raging against the sky.

Men scurry like ants,
ruthless with hate and weapons;
they seem small to us.

In summer fear spread,
In autumn courage fought back,
How will winter fare?

Jewels

If all the tears of yesteryear lined up to be wiped away,
They'd flood the earth and salt the ground and turn our sunshine grey.
But rather than build higher barns each year, to store our tears away,
we throw them up for God to bear, and wait for what he'll say.
Yes, each wet-streaked tiny handful, we offer up each day,
He takes from us, and keeps for us, in Jerusalem far away.

In some obscure sense of things, I don't think they shall ever fade;
but every tear shall be crystallized, kept on velvet, kept with jade,
placed on altars, revered, displayed-
And the saints will stride, like Solomon, with these jewels, all arrayed.

Every little child's cheek that feels a slipping tear,
shall feel the touch of he who holds his servant's blood most dear,
so know that he comes to wipe that tear, take it- store it away,
So that when gone are pain and fear, we'll find these jewels saved.

A poem for all the watchful eagles

Just this afternoon, I was walking down a somewhat secluded mountain slope, when a military plane flew over my position and discharged an air drop. I at first was somewhat hesitant to investigate the package as I may well have arguably strayed past the decaying fences that mark the limits of Area 51, but as no one, terrestrial or extra, approached the delivery, I finally decided it must be for me and went to investigate. I was not disappointed. The following 'poem', (so to speak) I arranged in no particular order from a series of telegraphs inside the air-drop. Whatever their meanings are, or why they were delivered especially to me, may remain a mystery for quite some time.


For all that is bright and beautiful,
for all things sane and wise,
for all who and kind and merciful,
let us clear for them our skies;
We can bring down wrath and fire,
we can sling down roars and smoke,
we can drop them food and blankets-
but can we give them hope?

We soar on celestial azure heights-
blessed to be free by God above,
we watch the world with an eagle's eye,
we descend down like a dove;
we claim the fortunes of the stars:
Fifty, dreams come true,
we plough the nations for fertile wars,
and spread our fearless tune.

From lofty, pristine eagle's view, we watch the world unfold:
fire, fear, ambition; strife,
we drop a crate, or take a life,
'till the smoke, with terror rife, proclaims that a war is told.

"What gives us such authority?"- we reason, from on high,
"why should we fight a stranger's war?"- we preach, while children die,
"who are our friends and who our foes?" we bluster to the wind,
"and why should we have hearts at all?" we muster, in our sin.

Oh proud, haughty, imperial eagle,
weep not for a crumbling Rome.
Shed not your tears for a witless land;
(lest they run from sea to murmuring sea,)
and salt the fields and flood your home, no.
Weep for those who know no flag,
fight for those who have known fear,
uphold those whose shoulders sag,
drain for them your lifeblood dear;
  
If those that loose their lives for love,
gain them back a thousandfold,
let us fight to stop this flood,
smite and strike their stranglehold;

Let rather our eagle fall for mercy, 
than be fatten, plucked, and encased in gold,
Rather we crack our talons smiting slave chains,
than watch as innocence is killed and sold.

Black against Blue

Dare the ancient azure sky above,
whether in cold contempt or gracious love,
defy the flags stretched black against her,
fluttering ghastly, to consume the world?

Though this cloud but dot our horizon,
barely the size of an outstretched hand,
it shall come grasping, groping,
 to smother and choke; to seize the land.

Let us not be idle against this darkness,
let our hearts not be cold to pain,
let us stand with our backs to the sunset,
face to the growing, gaping stormfront,
and face unblinking the slew of rain.

We must not let that thirsty desert,
shaded as it is, by swords,
to cast its lengthening, sharpening shadows;
Do we think it will be stopped with words?

The Street is Mine Tonight

As the title above states, this is not a poem. Apologies to all who may have gotten excited about the return of my poetic side, as far as I know it was last spotted purchasing a first class one-way air ticket to Costa Rica.

This is a rambling. It is the bizarre half-hearted sortie of my cold reasoning brain to create something attractive. For those of you who are in need of poetry in a desperate way, I prescribe Longfellow or Emily Dickenson.


The Street is Mine Tonight

The Street is mine tonight;
I alone share its company,
with the asphalt, with the gravel-rocks, with the street lamps burning orange in the dusk.

I listen to the comforting rhythm of my feet-falls, like the beating of a mothers heart,
Soft rubber on hard asphalt, two feet on a single road.
Ah yes, the street is all mine tonight, mine alone to cherish, to share with none. I alone see these dusky treetops, alone I smell the summer air. No one save my two pattering feet- afterthoughts of my wandering curiosity- serve to break the silence.

Perhaps it is a selfish love. Can love be both selfish and righteous? May I dare command: "Thou shalt serve no other wanderer, oh Road, thou shalt echo my footsteps only, shine your lamps for my two eyes alone?"
Can I hoard this sacred twilight, gather up the hazy purple air as treasure to be counted, stored?

Even as I wonder, the dusk fades into night; my manna melts as it passes its due hour. For a brief fraction of every day, God showers this dusk upon me; he takes it away lest in my greed I store up baskets of worms. I cannot command the evening air, I cannot silence the smallest cicada, hush the faintest buzzing motor from the distant highway. The purple trees do not fade into black against the stars at my bidding, the ochre rime of the sun's passing does not give way to the deep of space at my call.

I have been rebuked, and the rebuttal is just. I have no right to hoard this dusk: I am not alone.
The street ends and I turn and head back up my hill, my back to the purpled shadow of the sun. A blur of motion catches my eye, I look heavenward to see the picturesque silhouette of a bat, swerving wildly to eat his fill. By the time I reach edge of my forested home, the guardian street light has completely filled his hollow in the trees with orange light. Everything is painted in bold black and orange; two dimensions, like a manifesto.
I eat my manna. By the time I reach my door, my daily portion has already melted into night.

For the Grief Over Wordless Voices

I found this one on a little grave beneath a crab apple tree, left for a little furry rascal, that be he alive or dead, could not have read it if he cared. But I care, and so I copy it down here to remember. It was titled 'For the Grief Over Wordless Voices'


Weep not for me, word-ful ones,
waste not tears from your unseeing eyes,
I tread now on the smoothest stones,
free to explore the boundless zones,
that stretch limitless, beyond the skies.


I walk where the mist curls deepest white,
I tread in the dew before the dawn,
I watch the stars wheel through night,
and smell the wind before the light,
wakens to kiss the lawn.

When autumn writhes in golden death throes,
there I walk in utter peace,
on mountain slopes or spreading meadows,
through thick and dew-gilt bristling hedgerows;
I have at last found my release.


Look for me where the mist rolls thickest,
smell for me on the midnight air,
feel for me when the wind buffets hardest,
hear my call when the night is darkest,
and know that I feel, and see and answer;
all that you say to the midnight air.

A poem for the darkness

During a somewhat unsettling power outage a few nights ago, my librarian requested that I go examine an eerie noise emanating from a storage closet. Fortunately the power came back on and the noises stopped before I had to investigate the closet, but nevertheless I found this poem scrawled on a discarded copy of C.S Lewis's 'Mere Christianity'. Why or how the poem got there remains a mystery.

A poem for the Darkness

When darkness curls around your eyes,
when smoky swirls engulf the sun,
when your ancient friends take up reprise;
and you and dread are seamless, one.

When fears are met and formed in flesh,
when the empty darkness whispers back,
and horrifying your fears are meshed,
a consciousness that needs no rest;
will then you admit your hollowness, your desperate needing lack?

When only evils exists to speak,
when monstrosity walks the earth alone,
will you then beg for dawn to break,
to feel and see a God of flesh, of spirit, mind and bone?

If only shadows haunt your heart,
will you ask for a light to spring,
and cherish the fire that fights the dark,
the light that no darkness comprehends;
a simple, holy thing?

For when the light first shone in the black,
the darkness knew and feared,
For the knowing darkness comprehends it not,
And though it struggled, bit and fought,
will be purified, punished, seared.

Fears are but hollow in the sunshine,
voices are silent in the light,
Listen to the One who pours the wine,
and blesses his bread, righteous, divine,
And drives the darkness from your sight.