Mother

Spring flowers bloomed conception,

as she carried a force with umbilical connection.

Sang songs of familial relations,

until snowflakes glistened the new life cascade.

A frigid orange air whispered secrets better left to a howl.

Still

he was comfortably cared for.

Mature trees blistered blood-stains

above impubescent seedlings.

As seasons altered and changed,

adolescent scents choked out hope,

pollinating the atmosphere with songs of red age.

Connection disconcerted

confounded by careless captions,

or

lyrics of hate.

Sixteen years passed,

and

they found themselves at an impasse.

Ripped her out of the present,

a forced recollection of the past.

Joy rendered fantasy,

clouded by dissonant breath.

How ironic –

She: granted life

He: returned death.

“I’m sorry

mom.

You gifted me with sight,

how dare I not see

the Christ in you,

reflecting mercy on me.”

Forgiven for all said

and left

undone.

Suddenly.

Harmony falls, like Autumn, from trees,

while expectation sprouts legs – be free!

Under the same season’s sun

hope journeys forward and on,

to an orange-chorded sea

where meaning is tanned

by photosynthetic minds.

With new life emerging

out of murky red shorelines.

Thank you.

I love you, too.

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In Hell

The first place to look for Christ is in Hell.
Beaten, battered, torn apart.
Spit in his face,
vinegar smeared on his lips.
Four nails hammered in flesh,
supported by the pain.
Wrapped in darkness,
bathed in violence.
Worshiped in blood,
acquainted with sorrow.
Tired, hungry, forsaken.
This is love:
God in need.
The first place to look for Christ is in Hell.

Divine Excretions

The Lord of Lords, the King of Kings
squatting down to take a shit.
Constipated for many days,
the hole is now a full pit.

Defecation as a divine
demarcation. This is our
God? Our Messiah? Crucify!
And at once the people cried:

“What blasphemous waste is this,
that God should have to take a piss?”