...trying to stay sane in the insane world...via photography, poetry, painting, graphics and thoughts...
Saturday, August 31, 2013
on the horizon
i ask myself
who will see it
who will notice those cries heard in the night
as companions to the crimes outside our door?
totalitarians love war as if bread for their tables
blood, red wine slaking their throats.
we'll shake our heads when the warning sirens wail
hoping that the enemy will learn the we are right.
when we smell flesh as the rains upon our heads
will the silent torture of convictions spew vomit on the streets?
when bodies return wrapped in their symbolic flag
will it be too late to redirect the movies in our dens
are we to salute or weep the dead murdered at our hands
for they'll be our brothers, our children
our neighbors slain upon the carpeted earth?
who will see it?
who will notice
complicit in the crimes outside our door
as oblong clouds stretch across the azure sky
as if pillows awaiting heads to rest patiently
upon lungs possessive of suffocating themes?
God is not an extra in a movie. God is the movie and we're the screen upon which God is viewed. God must be seen in a new way and that way is love: love of self and love of the other as self.
*I beheld the working of all the blessed Trinity, and in this beholding I saw and understood the three properties: the property of fatherhood, the property of motherhood and the property of Lordship in one God. In our Father almighty we have our keeping and our bliss as regards our human substance, which is ours by our making without beginning. And in the Second Person, in wit and wisdom, we have our keeping as regards our sensuality, our restoring and our saving: for he is our Mother, Brother and Savior. And in our good Lord the Holy Spirit we have our rewarding and our recompense for our living and our labors which will far exceed anything we can desire, owing to his marvelous courtesy and his high plenteous grace.
-Julian of Norwich
i ask myself
who will see it
who will notice those cries heard in the night
as companions to the crimes outside our door?
will ours be a voice trembling 'neath a dimming bulb
warning that the light we see is truly dark?
totalitarians love war as if bread for their tables
blood, red wine slaking their throats.
when people disappear, they'll make then hide
cause crimes against the struggling are cause for more.
we'll shake our heads when the warning sirens wail
hoping that the enemy will learn the we are right.
who imagines our sincerity to be tainted?
nothing is more natural than knowing God's on our side!
when we smell flesh as the rains upon our heads
will the silent torture of convictions spew vomit on the streets?
when The Bomb, our bomb sprinkles the lawns behind our gates
will then a whimper rise enough to explore the rumbles of despair?
when bodies return wrapped in their symbolic flag
will it be too late to redirect the movies in our dens
to cancel the show about dandelions on our lawns
and show the faces which horrified the dreams of our parents?
are we to salute or weep the dead murdered at our hands
for they'll be our brothers, our children
our neighbors slain upon the carpeted earth?
then the airy transparency of our majesty
will lay crumbling like a yellowed constitution
released magically from its isolated tomb.
who will see it?
who will notice
complicit in the crimes outside our door
as oblong clouds stretch across the azure sky
as if pillows awaiting heads to rest patiently
upon lungs possessive of suffocating themes?
God is not an extra in a movie. God is the movie and we're the screen upon which God is viewed. God must be seen in a new way and that way is love: love of self and love of the other as self.
*I beheld the working of all the blessed Trinity, and in this beholding I saw and understood the three properties: the property of fatherhood, the property of motherhood and the property of Lordship in one God. In our Father almighty we have our keeping and our bliss as regards our human substance, which is ours by our making without beginning. And in the Second Person, in wit and wisdom, we have our keeping as regards our sensuality, our restoring and our saving: for he is our Mother, Brother and Savior. And in our good Lord the Holy Spirit we have our rewarding and our recompense for our living and our labors which will far exceed anything we can desire, owing to his marvelous courtesy and his high plenteous grace.
-Julian of Norwich
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
I kneel in prayer without words, blankly looking at and seeing nothing. There. The patterns and wrinkles of the sheets stare, wonderingly, at me who cannot say, "I came to do your will" because it will be a lie. I can muster only, "I long to do your will" because I know my sin, my weakness, my failures which throw any promise to You back into my face, regretfully. So, I kneel in silence, espying nothing, perhaps looking for You before I'm jolted by my inactivity to say something banal and common, trite and memorized because my words are still as my heart is searching. To be loyal to You is my desire in spite of the lies of my life. I know what I want, perhaps, even what You want but I fail in the execution and, hence, am silenced and kneel down this way.
* Can Jesus, a male, be a savior for females? Is the Christ figure a valid symbol for women, fostering in them a healthy integration of personality and acting as their chief help in experiences of God? Or has Christianity so identified the maleness of the historical Jesus with normative humanity that femaleness automatically falls to second-class citizenship in the community of God, a status we have seen historically translated as barring women from priestly office and power? Have women by virtue of their sex alone been excluded from full
representation in Christ's ministry, a sex that is somehow less important than the male in creation and redemption? Is Jesus' maleness so precisely identified with the divine Logos that femaleness is excluded from divine status and participation?
-Ann Belford Ulanov
*Hatch
what
the winged life
wants
is
to be
outside
in the open
commerce
of hearts
where
nothing
is
bought
or
sold
-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
with blood in the eye
the marines are coming
the marines are coming
the guardians of freedom are running
with guns drawn, they are shooting
the people of the land in the name of freedom
they're squelching dissenters
lest fear trap the loyal in movement and care
rallying 'round god cloaked in red, white and blue
they capture strange folk skinned in black and brown
as their children kill friends near the cottage gate
for blood has moistened their eyes
and their hands are red from weeping
the land must be defended in the time of crisis
though we be the crisis whose time has come
Flee the gods that whip you.
Flee the gods of Desire.
Mouth open, fly 'cross the fields
fly and don't look back.
Run on the edge of death.
You need not be a whippping child.
All gods are passing-powers
fragile as their bended knees, pursuing.
Ready yourself for laughter.
Their fall is at hand
for other gods pursue as well
amd these will be made the less
for all giants fall and bow to Death
have an end you know full well.
So, flee the gods that whip you.
You need not be a whipping child.
Flee the god within you,
the one with whip in hand.
There's always someone smarter than you in some way.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
a rapper's delusion
mixed images snaked through my mind:
couples hugging as in embrace;
faces bound in colored stripes;
spent sperm swimming briskly;
Van Gogh's ear being re-opened;
rappers mouthing karaoke
not knowing what else to say
because booty and booze never cut a record
nor placed bread on another's table.
this was the nonsense seeking meaning
at a venue near a boutique cafe
in hopes a coveted music-maker
would stop to hear me thoroughly through.
but it's silly to wait much longer.
it's now a quarter to nine
and the gas-lamp lighter is roaming
through alleys making outrageous promises
while listening to my mental meanderings
on a night when day hangs longer and longer.
it's time to move on.
hop a train and find a bed.
rest the rhythms circulating round my head
as they await the night when they'll be heard.
a tear, downtown
his hand was stretched
'twas food he sought.
i asked him who he was.
Danny was his name.
i was the first of 50;
none others cared to stop.
"will you shake my hand?
dirty, i know it is."
off slid my glove.
it blew his scandalized mind.
i grasped his hands
and he praised God.
we shook each other warm.
he didn't label me a bum.
Friday, August 23, 2013
empty minds
dying from a pornography of bilious suppositions
an incessant supply of tortured words
we collapse like fattened whores
drunk on the wine of debauched dreams
hoping for release from programmed fears
that hold us captive to junk food mush
coursing the cells of our striving selves
our wills flattened by laws and courts.
to live or be larger than narrowed whims
passed on to us by our gaseous heads
we die at their hands
by suicides hatched by the dim witted
a people too blind to think, reflect
having lost the truth of ourselves.
thus we gaze into glass coffins
hoping to spot the next coming
we'd life to be when discovered
when uncovered by studious researchers
buried with our empty minds
and they assessing who we are.
elegy for a dead ken
rush to my funeral
you would be brothers
come, marching in
bouquets in hand
lay them at the foot of my coffin
peer into the box
protecting my remains
speak your words of praise
while thinking thoughts of shame
i'll listen
won't budge an inch
fear not
jesus won't awake me
hand me back to you with tears
years to come
when you're free as me
buried with the dead
neath stones chiseled with steel
our names etched and forgotten
we'll meet to fuss, to cuss
to begin again
learning to love each other
for once
*One of the points of the Adam story is that we are not born in Paradise.
-Fr. Thomas Hopko
Thursday, August 22, 2013
woman ascending a staircase
his eyes scoured the night
searching for eyes to heed him
to watch, yet unnoticed his switch
a secret wish his lips held tight
of a woman under wraps of fear
in his masculine cauldron of shame
but, as from a shadowed edge
a place beyond the stage of dance
i caught the play-act of his heart
the one his buddies did not catch:
his woman, free for a moment's glance
as she ascended the royal stairs
*...what the modern human being cannot accept is forgiveness and grace. We would rather take our punishment, as it were. And the Christian God says, "No. I forgive you whether you like it or not." That's the only fire of hell-this loving forgiveness of God. That's why Jesus says there is only one unforgivable sin-the blasphemy of the Holy Spirit. And what is that? It is the unwillingness to be forgiven and to forgive. The proud cannot accept grace.
-Fr. Thomas Hopko
-Fr. Thomas Hopko
awaiting liberation
who'd say it
who'd say that word "liar" out
clenched behind false teeth
biting themselves to avoid release
for it is a lie
spoken with such grace and deliberation
that the detractors fool by the trembling in their throats
what assurance!
i am betrayed
and sulk like soaked peas waiting to be thrown into the pot
a pris'ner of incompetent words and thoughts
a diagram of dismembered smarts
words were said
their stiletto-style stuck to subjects without verbs
incomparable sounds against truth
but it's truth i desire
that longs for freedom now
bound in the throats of liars
diverting it to the killing fields
where the lovers of death yet dwell
zombies fixed on harm and shame
and the burden of gross falsification
while i lay here
a bound body
sweating beneath the heat of breath
filled with untruths that slay with skill
awaiting the liberation that truth would bring
even though in prison i die
who'd say it
who'd say that word "liar" out
clenched behind false teeth
biting themselves to avoid release
for it is a lie
spoken with such grace and deliberation
that the detractors fool by the trembling in their throats
what assurance!
i am betrayed
and sulk like soaked peas waiting to be thrown into the pot
a pris'ner of incompetent words and thoughts
a diagram of dismembered smarts
words were said
their stiletto-style stuck to subjects without verbs
incomparable sounds against truth
but it's truth i desire
that longs for freedom now
bound in the throats of liars
diverting it to the killing fields
where the lovers of death yet dwell
zombies fixed on harm and shame
and the burden of gross falsification
while i lay here
a bound body
sweating beneath the heat of breath
filled with untruths that slay with skill
awaiting the liberation that truth would bring
even though in prison i die
while nigglets clown
i.
we await Bethesda-waters to churn
that we might dive in and be healed
but no angel appears to stir the stagnant pond
the pool beside which we stand
we need a hand, a body to drag us in
our crippled limbs too heavy to bear
ii.
we journey as if on the dark sie of the moon
where craters bleed and sand dunes blow
pushing the heat from our cooling hearts
forming the chill in our trembling chest
shivers of silence encompass our poisoned minds
iii.
a little balm, some simple care, a spark of joy
would brighten the gray side of our minds
guiding the pain of hist'ry hobbling our feet
into that dark mirror we peer
into shadows bouncing black upon the glass
probing the faces that have molded our truth
iv.
the multiplication of sorrows soon forgot
rise behind the strained-glass of emancipation-lords
enjoying the circus while nigglets clown
prison of the mind
the prison in our mind it's that that draws us round from cemetery to cemetery from tomb to tomb where our stinking pasts are laid
we long to douse the smoke-clouds hov'ring above the smoldering of our deeds the garbage pit that yawns as we watch here we stood attempting to burn the rubbish that taints us the refuse of sins thought long discarded in the dump we called "home"
we're like fools in dunce-caps facing the wall of rejection twiddling our thumbs waiting for some trapdoor to spring hurling our vision into bas-relief on the wall of lost grace
like dour virgins posing for a date we sit staring into cameras that hold our image without a soul seated and staring into the coated glass hoping our Mate will ring and lead us to Spring
but will we remain stuck on the hinges of old queries trapped in the questions that philosophy can't solve as we travel the road hungering for Light
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
a person in five phrases
i.
held in the vise of despair without visions of hope
nails sharpen into swords and the stomach sours
becoming a volcano of spite. yet i walk about normally
with the abnormality of insanity crying for dead dolls
washing their dirty faces to see in a clearer light.
but can Pepto-Bismol coat the sorrows
that already make me blush, that flushes wholeness
into the life i bear, to muster whatever laughter i can bundle
like a hyena after a kill?
ii.
i reach through the fog that sits at the center on my mind
and touch whatever of limbs limp toward the earth
stretching to touch a caring one somewhere in this universe
a prisoner shackled and manacled upon the torture floor
waiting for the CIA to enter and smash the dead soul of me
into some meaningful life so that questions arise.
they see not blood nor hear the stream of screams.
they bruise not humans with a name
but immune, beat those with answers that kill
some self more notable than i
some other more barbaric than they
they say.
iii.
the one-color world bothers me.
i look into the eyes of grey and see darkness.
all about are smiling faces with glued expressions
and i am frightened by the sincerity they bring.
the tenor of their conversations is noise
unhealthy at the end of all.
iv.
a humming in the atmosphere reminds me of a lost butterfly.
somewhere between a need for freedom and healing
the spir'tual and the mental fall apart.
it needs to return to the flow of life
unable to maintain position o'er the mythical sea.
attacked like children chasing a fleeing ball
it's a slab of flesh destined for abuse
to be chewed upon, then vomited into a trough.
it's how i feel, atrophied: gnawed and discarded.
what is the death in me? regurgitation?
an attempt to reclaim a life
before the surgeon arrives to apply the knife?
v.
i'd like to film the world with water and light
with clapping and exuberant laughs
but my limbs fall limp and my spirit faints
feeling lost among the lonely
fumbling in search of meaningful land.
Monday, August 19, 2013
eulogy for our dead sons
sound taps! ring the dormant bells!
wail aloud! burn the buildings down!
pierce heaven's shield with mourning.
gather 'round the corpse of the slain
powdered and painted for a party
clandom's day of remembrance
the familiar curse of tears to shed
our cold heroes sleep past dreams;
froze in the youth, they lay dead.
all promise ceased with their heart
hope vanquished at the hour of their passing.
God hears the weak fists pounding
sees revenge kick ass about town.
the brothers' lives survive on blood
rivulets of life dried on a curb.
tiny notes appear in the press:
young man killed outside his home.
a numberless death counted by the FBI
for a report on crime and statistical health.
fire, then, the shots that "honor" these dead
and bear one more to the funeral home.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Mirrored Man
Look, ye, frightened, mirrored man!
Spy upon yourself in the glass, starkly,
turning your way and another, away.
Catch yourself in the course of flight.
You are many questions running, hiding.
your ghosts won't harm your smile.
Kiss then that you may radiance beam.
They long to hold you lest you scream
yet fail to because you will.
Riddles twist within your upright frame
and upright, your spirit faints at its faults.
These are the mirrors of your love,
exposing the shadows of your life.
Notes to a mother whose daughter may marry an Afro-American man
Theirs is a life they have to make together.
The first moth is sex, the rest of life is learning to live with each other.
The couple needs to put each other at the center of their life even or, especially, when children arrive and depart.
In problem situations, talk and listen, listen and talk but don't presume.
Family members should "never" be models for how the couple chooses to live. They are the only ones who can live their life.
Be true to and with oneself, always.
No marriage is perfect even when they have similar issues.
Blessings on the journey...and forgive.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
*There is an interaction between seeing and being. The kind of person you are effects the kind of world that you see.
-Simon Tugwell
prison of the mind
the prison in our mind it's that that draws us round from cemetery to cemetery from tomb to tomb where our stinking pasts are laid
we long to douse smoke-clouds hovering above the smoldering of our deeds the garbage pit that yawns as we watch here we stood attempting to burn the rubbish that taints us the refuse of sins thought long discarded in the dump we called "home"
we're like fools in dunce caps facing the wall of rejection twiddling our thumbs waiting for some trapdoor to spring hurling our vision into bas-relief on the wall of lost grace
like dour virgins posing for a date we sit staring into cameras that hold our image without soul seated and staring into the coated glass hoping our Mate will ring and lead us to Spring
but will we remain stuck on the hinges of old queries trapped in the questions that philosophy can't resolve as we travel the road hungering for Light
Thursday, August 8, 2013
What's happening to me?
Why does she hold me like this
treat me like her lover?
I am frightened by the feelings
rushing through my veins
a flare of fire burning in my flesh.
I sweat
and my skin tingles to the touch.
Set me down
lest I pee upon myself
lest my flow should become milk
and I shout in pleasured pain.
Spare me, my future.
Curse me not with doubts.
Let me be child and wrestle
in the grass but not in mind
or upon a troubled heart forever
in search of meaning forever
forever in search of why.
Release me.
Spare me, a child.
I've witnessed Death
yours and mine
and Ours throughout Time.
I tremble at our deed
curse the will that chose the path:
our path
our will
our burden upon the Land
laying deep in spirits now
struggling to revive
to know
The Hidden Who walked us
called us in the Garden
giving us Light supreme.
We've killed ourselves
and them
and that
which nurtures us
for now we're lost again
a fleeing mass of Want.
Hold me till the New Dawn breaks
and we birthed
in Yahweh's Paradise.
The cross at the side of the house
i.
The cross at the side of the house
stood straight against the madness within
a sentinel of promise against the curse
of Adam stumbling o'er rocks, hiding from God.
Bursts of mea culpas seeped through its walls
where the mother stood, child 'pon her hip
awaiting conversions of practice to practice
lest hope be buried 'neath the Blood of the Lamb.
From the empty shell of a man grown old
questions arise struggling for answers
like wasted seed among the weeds on the road
trampled by hurts and poverty's foot.
Like propped and stunted dwarfs
their dreams dangle on tomorrow's limbs
awkward and misshapen visions of must.
ii.
The friars vested in virgin faces
process in green feathers to the altar of God
celebrating Life in the Theater of Thanks
dancing with those with a cross in their yard
and lift up the shadows encircling them
as the Spirit kisses Bread to nourish the poor.
*The Notice of Always
Within the circle of now
the movement ripples
quietly, to and fro,
washing the past
of pointlessness
cleansing the future
of fear
waking me to notice
always
what is
here.
-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.
Edwin, girl
Awakening to the face of yourself
we brush at the door of our meeting
you shiver at the emerging prospect
the claims of truth indwelling
of something found while fleeing
a treasure of frights rushing toward the light
Death to suicidal illusions
you've been stabbed enough
Your room's been aired
the drapes pulled for the light
go to your mirrored boudoir
enter and peer upon yourself
snap the image while
crying hold the yes and weep for joy
Accept your state with gratitude
know love encoding you
from knees bruised while doubting
look up; catch grace dripping from the cross
God has eyes bright open
reflecting back yourself
stand then before his mirror
naked, grateful for the gift
the feminine smothered within you
then kiss her; you'll kiss yourself
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
into my eyes a door opens
into my face and heart it swings
that into my soul the Breeze might roam
that something fresh might blow
that the mote of closed-ness fall
into a ball of nothingness
that Light burn the hidden dust
the musty mounds in the darkened space:
reclamation by the Mothering Now
for habitation by the Eternal King
yank
yank down the doors and nets of your biased generations
open wide the walls that out-closed innumerable folk
build new reputations on your derogatory inflammations
and let fresh air experience an unpolluted clime
we're sick from your massive influenzas
your abusive crimes, your employment of demons
the end of the depression is bowing before us
the people long suppressed by "democratic" elections
it's time to forsake your petty term selections
of yourselves as the gods for all "colored-kind"
the souls of the suppressed have escaped being hostage
to your "untainted" minimizations, your inherited lust
let go, let go of the noose around our necks
as you strangle your children who lay down and crawl
how many loved-less ones
are chasing aft affection
where e'er it might be found
in the closet
on the stage
in the booby-traps that have been laid
tell me
tell me
where e'er they have hid
fear not
i shall not harm them
if we meet in the mud
nor curse the lineage of their oblations
to the slime and the grime
or imbecilic crimes
quickly
hand me the ledger with their names and fame
i wish to know them
to pass them on
in time
mine's a strange occupation
i know
like the strange aberrations
any one of us holds
strutting about the streets for an instant of fame
15 seconds of nothing
blown with the winds
live Life
live as best as you can
this is all that we have in our fabled fairyland
Monday, August 5, 2013
Sunday, August 4, 2013
No Black Indians in the museum
As only America can do
the Indians appeared as colored shades of white
pure and uncontaminated
Is it possible that my ancestors changed their skin
while greasing their hair?
Did their pigment slide off after their bath?
Is it possible that their tales were a mirage
as they looked toward the Mason-Dixon line
while marching west toward Nebraska?
Even the naked Amazons were displayed in shorts
lest their brown pricks offend the host
No Black Indians blurred the surrender of Geronimo
in his favored place near the Great White Chief
America must be pure
Keep Blacks far from the History Show
less the casinos remove their support
O God look
Behold the wild-child
now trapped
now tamed
now trained
I weep o'er the caging of him
longing for some wildness
for the innocence of his heart
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Shades for an evening sun
Like a Black Madonna in a chapel nook
the black night blends me within itself
'till I am one with her in her solitude.
The night and I, brothers in our darkness
as shadows mesh to blacken the spot;
identity one via the Moorish sky.
Silhouettes shaded for an evening sun
black lights shining 'gainst the morning rays.
what drama laying with the Muse of life;
a gray dawn gleaming in the dark, dank site
with the black words firing on a branding iron
like ravens jetting toward the Indian corn.
Charcoal smoking in the ordained furnace
making pitch flow smooth before the eboned altar
(and the black night's baby in her solitude).
Jazz and a spring bulb
Tombed (Fall!) in the sterile womb
and dead life from the winter scene-
blanket'd o'er with a fluffy quilt.
Star light and moon light and
sun light; coolness and chilly
with the warm heat - 'neath a cancer belt.
Footprints painted on a paper cup;
and transmigration at the seasoned time
but dopish, sleeping in the new spring time.
Ambrosia drunk (the god's own dew)-
staggered - and ermined in the
Tabor splendor: garmented bright.
"It is good for us to be here."- Voice
and thunder clouds on a windy day;
marriage, love and pregnated earth.
Partition! Break and quiescent pain;
lab'ring joy - (stretched up, a limb);
this late resurrection - Resurrection!
Dis-spirited
Your carcass lays dispirited
emptied of life
like the bottle in your hand
searching for the Spirit
amidst highs that drown
that cloak your suff'ring
and dull the nightmares
strolling by
You swill with a similar someone
that laughter might rise
and your garbled talk supply
what's missing all the time
Now laying drunk on the ground
you witness to your flight
and the shallowness of brotherhood
bottled against the Light
Your carcass lays dispirited
emptied of life
like the bottle in your hand
searching for the Spirit
amidst highs that drown
that cloak your suff'ring
and dull the nightmares
strolling by
You swill with a similar someone
that laughter might rise
and your garbled talk supply
what's missing all the time
Now laying drunk on the ground
you witness to your flight
and the shallowness of brotherhood
bottled against the Light
If Tired were tired
it would fall asleep.
Why do I fight my friend?
When the winds blow
the sand travels on:
those ever-changing dunes!
I drive o'er your shadow
and wrestle with your shade;
I embrace the vapors of your phantom
and kiss the wisp and fade
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Is freedom a return to bondage?
When from our exile
we run screamin' and fussin'
it's not because we hate living
but that the barbeque is gone.
We sit at the empty tables
staring across to hollow faces
wond'ring what happened
on the fields of the slaughtered.
A depressing state of aloneness
longing the abandoned Massa
while starving in the savannas
near food surrounding water
awaiting a motive to claim it
permission to want to live.
What might we be in Egypt
where Nile rivulets run sweet
where frog legs abound for breakfast
and the Massa makes us clean?
Is this a place for vision?
Is wisdom worth seizing here?
Is freedom a return to bondage
when the Lord has set you free?
There is power in that moment
when truth might cause you bleed
when visions are looking forward
toward unimagined lands.
Pilate, where are you hiding with washed hands? The crowd wants blood. You supply it in abundance as you slip back into the palace. The guilty may be these but others hide theirs behind the quartered flesh of others. Is it better that one or two or more die than that truth prevail?
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