Night work

Christianity, Poetry

Night Work

Late segments
of labour
clock in
clock off
time card’s
trailing sleeve.
Cloistered above,
angels spectate
as sagging
snow drifts
or searing
phosphorescent lights.
Choirs utter
mystic chants
shaped as
humming fridges,
vending machines,
computer screens.
Temporal transcendence.

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South Carolina

Poetry

South Carolina

There on the bayou,
bull reeds sway like belly dancers
on curdled swamp water
seizing them in place.
Stalks salute comrades
snatched for Gullah basketwork
or fallen in tropical storms;
a rusty motor boat barges through,
propeller decapitating heads from roots…
In this steamy circle of nature,
mosquitos have wet labors,
dragonflies drone overhead,
Jesus bugs perform solitary miracles.
Here, floating on the murky surface,
brief gusts beyond the shore
sway the reeds again.

Lead dreams

Life, Poetry

Lead dreams

Within me,
I long for a bounty
of lead dreams to drop like fruit
on a starving mind and soul.
Just as dreams can change one’s sleep,
so too can a passionate epiphany
conjure up the living dreams
kept fantasised when we walk
each day in our sleep…
But you see, I refuse to be a somnambulist
shackled to to mundane professions
like destiny-dead peeps.
I want lead dreams carved by lead hands
to set me free!
Am I the next Hughes/Walcott/Leroi Jones?
Not likely.
But if one line of verse can reverse the curse
of so many failed lives rolling to the hearse
then my purpose will have been served.
For the written word to me
is not just a well of personal strength and certainty
but a bottle of hope to pass
from one thirsty hand to the next.
This is the dream my heart dares meet––
poetry crafting new lives, new worlds
on barren paper sheets.

Everything comes undone

Uncategorized

Everything comes undone

Everything comes undone sometimes.
The center can not hold itself;
keep from dancing with abandon
like eloped lovers in the rain
rebelling with boisterous discretion
in these perplexing times.
Everything comes undone sometimes.
Meaning loses clarity,
reason has no claws.
What tears apart inside
is that question of being:
where Solace of Self lies.

Dei

Poetry

 

Dei

If one looks closely,
the rays of the sun
become luminous knives
piercing shrouded spaces,
leaving nowhere to hide.

 

Against the light I witness
this massacre of silent ruin,
where wild and decay
occupy structural order,
and God tags his name in white spray paint.