The Price of Reconciliation

A grievance nursed is a wound unhealed.
God, melt to slag our hearts of steel.
Strain and smelt and blow and hammer
fuse and grind away.
All that offends, all that won't bend
humble us or we dismay.
Let the pained and wounded soul
cool into a holy mold.
A sword of hope that You hold high
a testament to darkened eyes.
Shape us then to Your good cause
and make me fuel flame of God!

Unmoved

The wings of a monarch butterfly
vibrant, quiet, weak
silence every poet
outshine every King
Fire in the beetle, wisdom in the ant
have you ever stopped to marvel
at one leaf of a plant?

One leaf of a plant
don't bother with the whole
in a leaf and one leaf only
is more wisdom than the world.

From Eternity the Father
commanded it to grow
a brief and endless wonder
a delight He wants to show

So many leaves of glory
and our darkened eyes walk past
dull to all the wonder
unmoved by God at last.

The time beyond Victory

If all of time will end

and the hearth of Sun grow cold

the ice at last expand 

to fill the very whole

if the earth will be made new

and Heavens without time

then every prayer that's 

prayed will be memorialized 

an Eternity to watch 

in retrospect and awe, 

how every cry was heard

then stored in Heavens vault.

No moth or rust within 

golden, silver,pure

when all things are made new

the saints will pray no more. 

What need to pray in Heaven 

when Christ does ever Reign?

What need to grieve past midnight

when at last the morning's come?

A memorial of bottles 

filling Heavens store

an Eternity to ponder

what God did the age before. 

The Stand

A thin silver cloud races across a high midnight sky

the moon burns like a lantern across the fields

the tired earth shifting and rolling beneath his steady feet

Underneath, the settled lands are moving

in the distance the settlers are well armed

In a wigwam burns a fevered dream

eagles feather, tobacco and fire crackling

sweating, he dreams of rifles mounted on the thunderbird

the young man runs outside 

and keeps his feet steady planted on the shifting land.

dark skin and flowing raven hair

a chant at the moon and stars 

useless rage, indispensable pride. 

The rolling ground swells under him

the overthrow of nations, the end of Moonlight. 

The Strange Commission

John walked slowly along the side road,

past the frosted fields under the frosted sun.

Black upon his back, python boots, a gun.

Mud, bitter and crunching moved under his feet.

A steady walk, unhurried and direct.

Ever toward the horizon.

Wearing above all an easy smile.

Easy as if stolen, maybe from his father

or a teacher long abandoned, but now comfortably his own.

In time, he stops, allows his ears to get bitten by the wind.

Lady wind rushes past his ears, hard as ice, steady as a horse's hooves.

Birds play and call in the distance, and far to the right along

the fields the mottled cows graze unmolested.

Somewhere in the cold parts of his mind, a plan starts to

melt into shape. Forged of a solitary conviction,

the man continues his merry march past the passing roaring

train.

John grins.

Ahead in the near distance, he sees the next chapel at the side of the Mexican highway.

Approaching steadily, he steps in.

Slowly, upon entering, allowing his eyes to mend to the softened light, he lets his hands run along the back of the pew, feeling his hand pierced on the fourth row.

"Ha! A splinter." he mutters

"I deserve that." Walking further in and finding it empty, he stops and

lifting his head to the image of the Christ in the back of the stained glass window, he says

"Considering the state you were in, I suppose You don’t feel too sorry for me...don’t worry, I don’t either."

John's grey eyes stare a moment longer.

"I feel sorry for You though, I reckon you hear a whole lot of bullshit don’t You?"

"Sorry....habit." Quietly and unconsciously taking his hat in hand, John reflexively rubs his hand over his shaved head and slowly down his thick black beard. He sits down and sets his hat beside him.

Look, I gotta tell somebody and You’re the only feller I trust anyway. Turns out....I ummm may need some help. I got a situation, I’m sure you been apprised of it. Angels and all...

it’s about Rose. I’m about to tell her I love her. Now I know damn well she doesn’t know I exist. That I’ve never said a word to her. That I’m just the messenger to drop off the money her husband gave me before he died this morning. But all the same, I need to tell her I love her. I’m sure you’ve heard stranger things. Keep me alive long enough to do that, will You? I gotta do one right thing before I’m done. Figure loving that woman and taking her this money has to be it.

John sat back quietly as if listening.

Now I heard a preacher say that it ain’t really about what we do for You, but about what You did there." he said, gesturing towards the mural. "I get that, I suppose nothing I do can compete there, But didn’t old Abraham do something to prove he was sincere? I reckon this is that way. That's it, if I make it that far, I suppose I'll owe You one more than I already do."

John got up, gave a last look, put on his hat, and walked back out into the cold morning sun. He had been walking since before sunrise, as was his custom when he ran across the dying man. He stopped to pull him from the carriage, and the man requested John deliver the money and take care of his wife Rose. John saw an opportunity in the responsibility. Redemption. That's what brought his smile back. He started back down the path, boots digging in further into the warming mud. The plan was to go north through Laredo, then from Texas to Louisiana, find Monroe County, give Rose the money, tell her about finding her husband dying on the road, and tell her he loved her. Madness it may have been, but that was his path.

Further down the frosted path he wandered

walking past the open fields

steady onward toward the horizon.

Regret and memory stepping softly on his trail

hope going before like a sentry

What if love could be redemption?

What if he could forget the sight of the broken man

left for dead, crushed and broken by his carriage

gambling winnings strewn around the drunken wreck.

Had he known him? Does it matter?

Freedom called, and maybe ending the prison

of his solitary walk after all these steady years.

He smiled up at Heaven.

Slug Life

I’m a yellow slug,

        
                 slumbering

                       on a pile of  powdered salt.

      Wondering just how long

 it takes
       to dry.

Colombia

There is a field in Colombia 

Where the brightest flowers grow 

Hidden from America

There seeds are softly sown 

 

I breathed the fragrance of Colombia  

I found a stolen flower 

Dropped along the wayside 

Petals crushed by power 

 

I picked up the soft bloom 

I held her in my arms 

I poured water on her bruises 

and marveled at her charms 

 

Everyday I waited 

For a sign of life or hope 

And when her roots had sprouted 

I had to let her go

 

I lost her in the moonlight 

I searched the garden through 

I wandered in the starlight 

'till sunrise struck me through 

 

I knew I couldn't keep her

I knew her scent would fade 

Perhaps Colombia is sweeter 

In the field of hope and pray