Poetry

After

My heart soars, as does my spirit

It is so good to feel so good.

To leave behind that broken body.

Weak, failing and wracked with pain.

Did you ever stand beneath the blue sky

On a clear spring morning,

With the sounds of the birds,

And new blossoms, in all the colors?

Or beside a mountain stream,

On a late autumn day,

Crisp and cold,

With the smell of woodsmoke in the air?

That feeling of pure joy,

That your physical body can't seem to contain.

You're surprised that you can still breathe,

And that you don't just explode!

Multiply that feeling by infinity.

Because Jesus is here.

He holds me with his hand,

My senses are overwhelmed,

And I'm loved and alive.

The Sum of Many Streams

Rivers of filth drift through the land.

They are the sum of many streams.

Their names are:

Slander,

Rage,

Jealousy,

Hypocrisy.

Their waters rise in the gutters.

On the waves of the air they enter our homes.

Our children splash through puddles of despair.

The poison is subtle.

We look for joy in the beds of our neighbors,

And peace in our investments.

I gaze across the surface of the waters.

They fill my heart with revulsion.

I hate what is there and I recognize the evil.

But time and again,

Because I am weak,

I slip into the inviting waters,

And swim.

The Wolf Will Gather

Across the lonely valley,

The black road like a snake,

A group of seven riders,

The morning silence break.

The wolf will gather in a pack,

The lion in a pride,

But these men come together,

Upon the call, "Let's ride!"

The pack is like a living thing,

It turns and moves as one,

Astride the double-yellow,

Their creed is, 'All or None!'

They lean into the corners,

Their thunder splits the dawn,

And with a twist of throttle,

The group, as one, is gone.

Rainbow Resurrection

Were you shattered?

Were you driven to your knees?

Did all the color,

spill from your soul?

Did you see,

all that you'd built,

crumble?

Were you shattered?

Like light,

blasted into pieces.

Was the pain sudden,

and intense?

Were your tears,

like dead leaves?

Were you shattered?

But there,

among the ruins,

did you find the hidden jewel?

Did the spectrum span the sky,

light shattered by rain?

Out of the storm,

the colors arch,

high above in triumph.

Do they fill your soul,

with all that matters?

Are you the light,

blasted into pieces?

Are you the color?

Were you shattered?

Fresh Texture

The sign reads - STAY OUT!

This is mine!

My fish, my birds, my deer!

But I'm not here to steal.

These creatures don't feed my body.

These creatures fill my soul,

Enliven my spirit,

Cleanse my eyes.

In the meadow,

New grass,

Short and sweet,

Fills the deer,

with the taste of life.

Fills me,

With tranquility,

Covers the earth,

With fresh texture.

You can plant the post.

You can hang the sign.

But new grass,

Short and sweet,

Will one day,

Provide fresh texture,

Over you too.

You and I

You left school in the tenth grade.

I attended college.

You were high-strung and flighty.

I was cool, never ruffled, in control.

I thought you had a weak personality,

Easy to anger, never happy, never satisfied.

I knew that my deficiencies came from you.

Distrustful, insecure, worried, anxious, self-worthless.

Because you gave me a home,

That contained all of the details of a genetic family,

Without the genetics,

I thought that you and I,

Did not connect.

Your death,

Has finally completed the synapse.

Not the cycle,

Nor the circle,

But the interlacing of our lives.

Like the squares of a patchwork quilt,

Different textures, common thread.

Your portion nearly half-finished.

When ours began.

On a Monday,

You laid down your needle, your thimble,

Our thread.

I took a room,

And began to catalogue and discard,

The detritus of your life.

A litany of junk mail,

Phone books packed with long deceased numbers,

Purses, shoes, belts, stuff and nonsense.

More of my suspicions confirmed.

A safety net of dubious quality.

My presence an intrusion,

Validated by your passing.

Yet to my great surprise,

Amidst the layers of debris,

I found a scrap of thread,

And then another and another.

Poems,

Written in the dark hours of the morning.

Squirreled away against the cold.

Laid out in faulty rhythms.

Victims of my precise criticism.

At last I saw,

The passion you gave me,

Not measured verse.

It was the ability,

To see words in color,

Laid out on the page,

With silent music.

Ridin' Fence

I'd rather be ridin' fence,

Out in the hills on my own,

Just me and my 'ol hoss, Rambler,

A line shack my only home.

I just cain't seem to figger,

What draws some fellers to town,

Where they hope to win at cards,

And if not, their sorrows to drown.

They lose a months pay before supper,

Maybe break a few teeth in a fight,

Aching to have what's wrong,

With never a thought for what's right.

But life ain't just feedin' the body,

Or feasting on carnal pleasure,

It's work and it's sweat and it's toil,

It's layin' aside a full measure.

'Course you don't have to live on a ranch,

To do what's right, you see,

We all got our own trail to cut,

But I'll tell ya what's best for me.

I'd rather be ridin' fence,

Out under a western sky,

With the warmth of the sun on my back,

And the sound of the Red Tail's cry.

Brazil Starts America

Brazil starts America,

I know that sounds real strange,

But think about your breakfast,

A cookin' on the range.

Now people 'cross the country,

Eat different I surmise,

Some folks in red pajamas,

Others in suits and ties.

But before we leave that table,

Before the meal is through,

We'll put away a gallon,

Of Brazil's most precious brew.

That clock goes off at daybreak,

We stumble from the bed,

Fall into the kitchen,

Less alive than dead.

We pour a cup of coffee,

Drop in a lump or two,

I love that amber liquid,

America does too!

Neil Young

Hunched and roaring

Awash in a blazing sea of feedback

Hair spiked by static velocity

From the gut of your soul

To the fingers

To the throat

But mostly

To the eyes

Driven by the music

From inside

It hits me in the ears

I feel it go

Into the gut of my soul

A chill starts at my temples

And moves down

Even though you don't know

That I exist

We are united

By the waves

Of sound

The Wisdom of Antelopes

Once I was surrounded,

by many antelopes.

They grazed, I talked

of rulers, kings and popes.

The grass was green,

the sky was blue.

My friends they smiled,

as pronghorns do.

You see they're not political,

and not religious, too.

And neither will they prattle,

or bore you with their view.

But as the sky fades yellow,

in every kind of weather,

we take a look around us,

then snuggle up together.

Music is Life

2 a. m. and I was still unable to sleep. Snow blanketed the campus like a scene from Mickey's Christmas Carol. Earlier, the storm had reached a crescendo as the wind whipped tree limbs beat a staccato rhythm against the upstairs dormitory windows. It was as if an unbalanced conductor had misplaced his spectacles and mistaken the bird's-eye maple pattern of the podium for a spirited capriccio.

Now, however, the soft fall of snow provided a quiet interlude to the remaining hours of darkness. I struggled to find harmony with my surroundings. My roommate's vocal chords vibrated with a resonant drone as he struggled to breathe through a misshapen nose, courtesy of his best friend's hockey stick.

Morning would come soon enough and with it bring an introduction to the dynamics of a new day. I did not relish the thought. My academic music career had been a progression towards mediocrity, a slide into dissonance. I played and loved the oboe but had become increasingly fatigued by the endless recital of jokes about rail yards, empty boxcars and discarded stogies. My playing did nothing to provide relief from this serenade of slurs.

I was brought back from this nocturne by the steady cadence of the old clock's pendulum. In spite of my black mood I began to be aware of a rondo that was running along the edges of my consciousness - "Life is music, music is life, life is music, music is life..."

Reaching into the case I brought out my beloved oboe. It felt good in my hands and I realized that perfection is not always possible or necessary. The performance is an ensemble piece, the concerto made to need accompaniment.

Lying back on my rumpled bed with the instrument carefully cradled against my cheek I thought of the coming day. It would be the beginning on my personal Opus, 1, No. 1. As I drifted off to sleep I again heard the melody in my head - "life is music, music is life."

(Short verse made up of a catalogue of musical terms.)