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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Death is Dead

Oh, death.
I dare you to bring your sting!
But you can’t,
and that’s why we sing:

Death will hold no power.

Death – you’re a snake with no venom,
a feline lacking your claws.
You will strike everyone, but you can’t kill us all.
Jesus lives, His love greater than death.
We give Him praise,
long after our final breath.

With triumphal music we swoon and swing,
“Jesus is King, not this petty death thing.”

Fixed or Broken?

They fixed your brain when you were young
Long before you were born
Sought to bring about the ideal
without your say.
They fixed your brain when you were young
Long after you were born
Reinforced by those around you love
and who love you.

Break it.

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?”

Who Will Save me From This Body That Is Subject To Death?

Sonorous nonsense driven home with gestures
which bifurcate the conferential notion of reality.
Demarcating experience into a disingenuous echo of truth –
where is the line?
Do we draw it ourselves?

Everything I know,
and everything I hold dear
is a self-induced narcotic
that structures my life
into a complex that helps me to sleep at night.
(Except not really.)

I am not a son.
I am not a student.
I am not an employee.
I am not culture –

I am not a structured existential coping methodology.

I am not you –
I am not me.
I am
a being which is destined for death.

What else is there?

Call Me Unique; Name Me Nothing

Raindrops, hugs & kisses, and stabs in the back
Though I’d prefer you stab me in the front, because pretending to care is ten times worse
I can’t offer you logical proofs, but I can give you my whole-y heart
Normally I wouldn’t write something so cliche’, but lately I’ve been reading about vulnerability
Taking me back to my days in the city that I barely remember
Things were less hopeful then (which is ironic, because I was surrounded by a mutilated corpse)
With its last few breaths it promised to stab me in the front
And in the back it went
So tell me – was it time well spent?

That’s okay, though, really – I expected as much from the Body of Christ
“Forgive me if that’s blasphemous”
There I go again practicing pretentious piety!
I’m just as much a false prophet as you!
This poem isn’t looking very much like a poem
So let me mix it up a bit
But what is a poem?
(Define: “poem.”)

Ponies were riding down the escalator racing to find meaning
Highlighting all the houses that stood out among their blinders
Feeding in the ones with no complexity – reveling in complicity
Oh structure, dear structure, do you exist?
Only if there’s a foundation to rest your twisted neck

There we go, a real poem
I may be skeptical of authority, but I’m not Postmodern!
Who’s Authority, anyway?
I don’t have a name, silly.