The Emperor's New Face

Yet more poetry migration. Later stuff. This collection shows maturation (!) in the course of itself. My favorites start around the middle of this collection; they are marked by a freer verse and more use of figurative imagery.

These poems date from Fall 1995 - Spring 1997

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The Emperor’s New Face


The Happiest Sadist 


And what of this man 

who by proficiency of language 

elicits the pain and revels 

in the torment of his fellows.

A genius by nature 

whose nature has turned. 

What was destined for good 

now bears a halo of evil.

A new prophet gifted 

with great reasoning
twists the understanding of men,
leaving them foundering.

Smiling at his eloquence
the man goaded by spirits 

turns on the world a benevolent face,
shining with the ambiance of the Dark Messiah


Happy Thoughts 


Vaguely I recall a merry life once led,
where a smile and a laugh 

were always within reach. 

Always ready for use.

I remember when feelings came easily, 

sometimes expressed before felt. 

Always pure and never faked. 

But that was before self-consciousness.

I think about the standard, doing my best always to conform to theirs. 

Then I realize my mistake and chastise myself for not being true to mine.

I recall those times only in flashes 

while lying alone in the long melancholy hours between twilight.
Staring intensely at a blank ceiling
trying to regain my happy thoughts.


Just For Grins

I’m smiling the smile of a Cheshire Cat. 

My mind is gone, I’ve lost it. 

I can only wonder where it’s at.

I can hear all of what you say, 

and though I don’t respond aloud, 

I smile in this peculiar way.

When I grow bored or just feel like having fun, 

I’ll fade to stripes, or just teeth agrin. 

But just because I’m no there doesn’t mean I’m done.

I’ve faded into my consciousness, where I reign. 

Paying no attention to others views, insights, 

refusing to share and feel their pain.

I can’t be seen I feel, 

and maybe you can’t see me. 

Or maybe I’ve imagined myself, and to you I’m just not real.


Come As You Were

Breaking through into their minds
the immortals came and tarried
but just a short while.

The anemic royalty drinking 

in a Roman wilderness while 

mad children screamed in anguish.

Introducing to fame their 

unique brand of eccentricity
and each despising it in the end.

So they walked through the 

doors of perception to 

sit in the waiting room of eternity.

And when the sun comes again to the land of the smashed 

the immortals will return to reclaim the minds 

of their friends where they are enthroned.

(a tribute to Kurt Cobain and Jim Morrison)


To Be Bigger Than An Hourglass 


I like it when my mind is out 

and I can see what it is all about. 

And I can see time rushing by 

and the stars flying high and I know 

that I am more eternal than even these.

And I feel farther out and hear silence burst by consciousness like a shout. 

And with muscles quivering, my mind 

races against the sand falling in. 

A quick eternity seems almost necessary.

So with rich rags and humble pride, 

I will seat myself at my master’s side,
and I will listen to His wisdom and feel 

His touch drain me of all unclean 

and with it the glow of my robes dulls.

I am sitting now mortally plain,
my heart bare showing stain. 

And he reaches over and shows me his will
and he washed the smudge with a tear-wet cloth and smiles 

proudly at what he will help me to do.


To My TV 


I see fields once lit with holy light now rendered desolate
and barren by thoughtless and uncaring humanity; 

the unwanted by-products of greed and war.

Friendships torn asunder by rumours 

trivial moments blown out of proportion
by some soulless entity.

Individuals striving for conformity 

preached by leaders meaning well 

(for themselves, wanting followers, ego trip)
Where is the justice?


To My Muse 


Prologue- 

Before introduction I noticed your face 

wreathed in mist as though dreamed
I tried to remember where I’d seen 

it before; but failed.
I couldn’t ignore the anxious tic 

of possibility in my soul each time
you arched your eyebrow with your whole face.

Dialogue- 

I waited until the right moment
(or so I hoped) to move, 

waiting patiently for my muse, Erato,
to show me the words; (enamorado) 

stricken, my native tongue fled my pen
in a cowards last effort to hide inside. 

I quivered like an aspen leaf as 

it was translated, I thought I’d killed it.

Epilogue- 

Oh, but the joy that flooded 

my heart when you finally smiled. 

That picture is tucked away forever
I could always be that happy 

and go to the end content
If you would just choose me

c.d.


A Mantra In Answer 


A rose is a rose, is a rose, is a rose, 

and beauty it doth send to eye and nose.
And it, if not tended, will wither soon. 

Others, though seeded, didn’t grow. 

But yours in my heart still freshly blooms.

You say it’s not safe to flirt with me, 

but remember safe will do as safe will be. 

And what is dropped as hint will be found as clue. 

Though safe may change from day to day, 

there’s still no one as zen as you.

n.m.


Doors In The Mind

I have seen the edge, 

where the mountains meet the sky. 

The place where the unconscious takes over,
where lunacy lives and logic dies.

A place where the only difference 

between a man and his enemy 

is that they don’ t share the same soul 

with which they scheme their dark alchemy.

A friend is nothing but a sounding board
to further your own goals. 

A tool to aid in your survival, 

the answer to saving your soul.

Shadows hid the keys
that unlock doors back to reality,
which is just a degree tamer,
but a much nicer place to be.


The Last Voyage 


Ships wandering at sea 

ghostly apparitions of pinpoint stars
behind fleeting cloud-like veils

Lonely helmsman peers earnestly 

wind borne razor-froth
shaving away the final vestige of innocence

Tonight guided by a new lost star 

sailing toward which strange
shore 
on the heels of Aries

Screaming banshee winds 

attempt to sever the mast
and leave no sails to propel

Now, safely past, sailing quiet seas of reverie
then solid coral reef of shore 

splinters the craft to sail no more


Standard Deviation

I have forgotten the meanings 

of almost every tear I’ve shed. 

I can’t recall each instance, 

but still I know my heart has bled.

I long to live free of harness,
the ropes that tie me down, 

the distorted, disowned values 

that twist my thoughts around.

I want to see myself in a clear light, 

not refracted by disapproving eyes.
I will not conform to your standards, 

constantly acting and breathing lies.

I can not understand why you expect me 

to affect such an apathetic attitude,
or to act as if I’m at peace with myself 

when really I am in a foul mood.

My love for myself and others, 

expressed in the joy I radiate, 

Must be the only thing I give off
and let this devouring anger abate.


The Apprenticeship Of William Brown 


He has stared at the bright eyes
of the car behind him for hours 

through the still dusty night
the boy in the back of the truck 

is traveling far from home

Stop after stop the child 

clambers out of his iron carriage
to glean what knowledge and 

local color he can from 

behind masks of prejudice

With practice he begins 

to notice each outcast 

from their description and
wonders what makes them so: 

not accepted

Through oppressive years 

spent in sleep sheltered from the sun 

and through nights full of experience 

he has now learned his land- 

the lessons it has taught him

Of those to be avoided 

because of obvious differences- 

(they have become his friends)-
those to be held in contempt,
and for what ?

When to speak and then 

what to say and to whom- 

(what does he care,
he has no one to talk to, yet)- 

but he remembers the power of words

He has learned the secrets of speech 

from old men clustered eagerly
in general stores around the pot-bellied stove 

the flickering orange light pooling in their eyes
each imparting his own wisdom

What posture to take for 

each audience, big or small 

and to each he gives a 
portion of what they came
to hear: that someone knows the truth

And hope - for with each 

intake of iniquity there came 

a solution given by the objective mind 

of one person willing to change 

what is needed for next time

The youth has become a man 

with understanding of the workings,
and why those gears are rusting out 

Revered by his teachers 

held in disdain by those who still must learn
he has become a master craftsman 

hammering out words and phrases with 

skill and ease, his training hardly 

in vain, his almost ethereal knowledge 

relevant to his world


Buying A Lemon 


You’re right, it’s good that we talked it out, but it’s also bad for me…

That’s why I love ambiguity,
it applies to everything.

I told you that you wanted to shop
but didn’t want to pay.
I’m sorry if it was rude 

but I was honest with my feelings.

I’d say I don’t want to buy because
I’ve found you’re not what I want, 

and you’d say I’m a hypocrite. 

But why should I have to pay for something I’ll have to return?

Shopping around isn’t the thing for me
I knew what I wanted when I went out. 

I opened my heart’s wallet too wide. 

You can’t fit a square peg in a round hole, and customer service doesn’t care.

I know now why you laughed when I dreamed you drove by,
You couldn’t understand why I stood alone on a cliff
in the middle of nowhere, unwilling to leave. 

But the reason will arrive shortly, and I’ll wait patiently for her. 



Learning To Fly 


Painful crimson taints pure blue sky, 

it’s too sharp to be real. 

Muscles tense, feet falter.
On the edge of cliff, on the edge of night.

Rose light washes into grains 

of sandstone underfoot. 

Do they serve to propel,
or grind motion to a halt?

Ghost of wind, makes sound indistinguishable. 

There are others, are they calling 

me out to join in fantastic flight, 

or warning me of sheer winds, with no ground for protection?

I can only guess, 

there’s no help after here.
Now a silver sliver of moon 

peeks discreetly over the horizon. 

Watching as I inch cautiously forward,
on the edge of cliff, on the edge of night.


Cloudburst 


Driving toward the thick massing 

cloud on the horizon
Black, blue, purple, grey mesh in 

twisting columns 

suggesting some preternatural force 

molding sky pottery 

Driving winds subconsciously set the pace, who am I to race the wind? 

The air is electrically supercharged
I know, I have and affinity with the rain
Some deep voice issues from the clouds 

and my heart responds to the rumbling,
cries out with warm impatience, 

affirms that I am waiting here 

Arms outstretched
to embrace the cold, pelting 

It can not deny my magnetism
I am instantly aroused, trance of calling
leaves with first drop of water
washed away, runneling down my body 

to pool at my feet
It seems that I am floating, no, flying 

in the air-space between the two 

gulfs of water
I don’t know if I am embodied
that dying corpse is of no use here 

I streak onward, nearing terminal velocity.
The rain dies, and my power with it
I wait for the next cloudburst 



Hesitation 


As I sit
staring at paper, 

words, letters-jumble, 

writhe in agony 

at my effort to comprehend.
Eluding discovery, 

symbolize in microcosm
the way I relate 

You
I want, I need 

but can’t grasp,
put into so many words 

my desire. 

Expectations of forever that Now could destroy. 

Controlled impatience at your touch.
Wanting to spill out 

all of emotion
just to see if you drown, 

or if you cling to me to survive.
I listen to your song, 

break apart inside. 

See clouds that yesterday 

were with me now miles away.
Tunnel vision ensues.. 

Lying on my back in the ground, 

the Earth wants to stop me. 

Rigor Mortis keeps me from acting. 

Parched throat and skin from 

falling prey to this merciless sun.
Where is the rain when needed, 

to spill down my face,
wash away fear? 

Let you know, 

I love you.

j.h.

Patience 


Crisp starry night,
begging for just a moment alone,
(with you) 

Then it comes, and I allow myself 

to be carried away by your caress, 

(warm, so warm in contrast to the air).
Inside, yin and yang quit pulling 

long enough to bask in adoration at 

(the object of their quarrel) 

you and I am drunk, 

as though I had touched my 

lips to the mouth of some jar 

of forbidden 

(nectar and ambrosia) 

wine instead of your 

(soft, inviting, enticing) 

lips. 

Then the fire begins.
The very thoughts in my head flame.
Images flicker just long enough to 

show I can’t interpret them, I’m not 

(lucid) 

capable of putting out this fire.
It can only be quenched by another
(rapture, oh joy) 

draught of the same. 

I can’t wait.

j.h.


Lagoon 


As I look into your eyes, they sparkle with the quality of a tropic lagoon.
Cold enough to be enticing, then
warm, to lull into deep sleep.
And I struggle past that trap. 

I know everyone can see your beauty.
Diving deeper, I want to find 

the fabled oyster, rough, barnacled. 

That treasure, worn with time and use,
that until now, has held only meaning for you. 

There, inside lies your soul.

The true you, 

gleaming darkly through the shadowed folds of your being. 

A bounty worthy of a king’s ransom
I would willingly give to know:
What you think, 

how you feel, 

When did you know?

The pearl an oracle 

where these questions can be asked. 

While I pause, looking back to the surface for the last time, 

then turn again. 

Let me inside your head 

and imprison me there to be free 

forever.

j.h.


Everynight

Every night I lie down, my life 

is recycled through my head
in staring at the dark
I see the blackness that 

used to, thoughts of future 
wrought. Void.

Everynight 

Now my dreams are you, 

will be. Before
the vacuum future showed 

no hope of you , of life.
Of living on borrowed time

Everynight 

Drowsing comfortably 

in my own Neverland.
Never dreamed this possibility.
Sometimes it scares me that 

this dream has lasted. 

What if I’m just someone else’s fiction?

Everynight
is almost too much 

when the dreaming at night 

meshes with the waking life of the same. 

Do castles built of silver sand
in 
the golden sun crumble at a touch?

From underwater it seems 

the shimmers are solid, 

and the fantasy is kept as reality 

for now, until it can be 

And I can think of new 

black nothings to discover,
and conquer 

Everynight.

j.h.


Drowning Mercy

Surging surf ‘round my ears breaks 

choking brine fills my throat 

as in silent desperation my eyes 

seek to replenish the salty water
that I have swallowed. 

These bitter tears, their taste 

unbearable. I know that once they were sweet. 

Reminders of actions, under the pretense
of an eternal commitment performed. 

Now, without that hope, 

degraded, demeaned. 

Disillusioned. So I turn back
to the point we met, and 

the One who brought it together. 

Showed an affinity of dreams. 

There I’ll leave my heart -
to learn the essence of His will,
to recognize it, accept it. 

in order to share it when needed,
to be the strength, the buoy
for others to cling to when
in the same position 

I am phoenixed, once again
opened up to a new vision
to emulate the life preserver
that was thrown to me.

j.h.


Blink

I steal a glance to your upturned face 

where shadowed lights play 

an abstracted version of your passion.
Turn back,
and touch your silken skin on mine. 

Lose concentration; reprimanded: 

Watch, understand,
but I don’t need to, 

I hear it in your voice 

when you speak of that far off place. 

I’m looking at you again,
this time you don’t care, 

slip down into a sweet kiss 

then stop to show something important. 

Recognize my passion 

but it gives way to deeper one 

Pure emotion reveals itself naked, 

there is more to gain than lose.
In desperation I cling to you. 

Then kiss you.
And you in return, 

alternately submissive then strong. 

How do I deserve this, 

You? 

Whom the angels pay homage to. 

The ghost touch of your fingers 

speeds cold electricity in all directions. 

In search 
of that door that opens into your soul, 

I’m groping blindly. 

Then you speak the magic mantra 

that has been cycling itself in my head.
Touch your whole perfect form again with my lips, and you sigh. 

I can see that fulfillment is attainable. 

I silently word a prayer that fate will 

continue to befriend me, 

as I open my eyes an instant later,
Blink. 

Replay the night again.

j.h.


A Prayer, A Promise

O blessed faith 

with which my present darkness 

is illuminated 

So brightly doth shine 

that with eyes closed 

in dream
to see that which is in darkness 

Blessing outpoured, through 

heavenly portals loosed 

to fall into this mended vessel,
grown back together, callused. 

Break it once again that a 
perpetual cycle is initiated. 

Love to be given freely, as 

instinct, on impulse 

without reservation. 

To commit, and feel the 

rush of forever fill my heart 

and then, continue 

after the brief glimpse of eternity 

is received. 

Gratitude for release 

from solitary confinement, 

and with grace to offer the
right key to the Inner Limits 

the love shared will be yours
in mirror of what has been 

given 

Your promise to wait patiently 

until I can recognize 

and that trait restated in my mortal manner
and with strength 

to withstand the 

belittling, finite Time 

I’ll stand firm in your
promise 

hold me steady in your arms.


To A Friend 


When Fate in its selective faculties 

directs wandering, subjected souls
against their will to their purpose,
and they, enervated, fall to their knees 

in desperation, 

hoping their journey was not in vain, 

true prerogative is dead, 

and choices beyond contemplation are laid to rest. 

Then they are humbled 

Destiny is revealed, 

so simple, yet beyond knowing.
Hidden behind a door not even conceived. 

The weary traveler, eager to accept, 

tempers desire with experience 

and awaits full instruction, 

and silently words a prayer that 

if in nothing else but this destiny,
sincere commitment can be reciprocated.

r.v.


Carpe Mediocrity 


We’ve come along to seize the day 

We don’t care what we have to say 

To take our fill and then to die
Just enough to get us by

Carpe Mediocrity
It’s enough just to be 

We might want to survive 

but we won’t show it in our lives
Carpe Diem if you dare 

Just don’t let them know if you care.

Friends, indeed, if friends you be 

Keep your distance stay away from me 

Your greedy, grasping, sweaty clutch 

Too much love is transmitted in a touch

Carpe Mediocrity
It’s enough just to be 

We might want to survive 

but we won’t show it in our lives
Carpe Diem if you dare 

Just don’t let them know if you care.

We’ve come along and missed the way 

We don’t care what we’ve had to pay 

It was worth the price to avoid the hurt…

Carpe Mediocrity
It’s enough just to be 

We might want to survive 

but we won’t show it in our lives
Carpe Diem if you dare 

Just don’t let them know if you care.


In A Circle 


This is a ring. 

My ring. 

To someone else that may be all that it is. 

To me it symbolizes 

one of the hardest, and most fulfilling
years of my life: 

the struggle, the triumph, the pain.
It is something I value. 

You, too, hold so much value. 

As a friend you have been an example,
an encouragement, and a smile. 

As more, you have given me challenges
that I alone can not keep.
So I’ve put them in the hands of a higher power.
I hope that when you wear this 

you can feel secure in a friendship
grounded in our Best Friend 

that will grow into something else, 

and free to be the same 

carefree, fun-loving individual 

that I have grown to know and love.

r.v.


My Answer 


The gap widens, patience grows thin 

The struggle of my will against the eternal weakens, 

the fight leaves me, time wins.

Air is heir to all that love couldn’t make fly, 

wings sprout from a heart’s soil,
too long thought to be dry.

Equip to take up and away 

on a journey too special to tell, God answers me: wait. 

Not now, maybe never, maybe someday.

“ All of that heart’s strength belongs to me.
I am the only one that can deserve it, 

all it needs right now is me.”

I nod my regret and hopefully pray, 

For guidance, strength, and safety, 

and that I’ll get another chance another day.
To rejoin with what she takes as she departs.
The smallest, least obtrusive, and heaviest piece of her luggage, my heart.

r.v.


Bounce 


Now enter the dragon and steal his heart 

Take his treasure and perfect his art
Become the worm you hate the most 

Kill yourself, kill your host 

Dine on thought stolen from another’s head
You know the future face it with dread 

Kill the passion 

Drown it in pride 

Gasping for air I turn inside 

No longer I am, nor is he in me 

taken leave I pretend to see
Eaten alive by the worm in me 

I see friend as foe 

saviour is enemy 

My last and dying breath
a tiny prayer escapes my lips 

I pray you 

won’t like me
wander back and forth for eternity


Mortal 


I visited death in the morning,
and my father took his hand 

the sun was bright, the wind was still 

Time felt like an hourglass with wet cement sand

From across the room I met 

The man who had no face 

I told him he looked better than while he had lived 

and he looked happy in this place

As we stepped from the house 

where the walking dude lived 

the day was smooth as glass, the air as heavy: 

reality washed through a sieve

Death visited me in the evening
and asked me for my hand 

I shook my head and withdrew my gaze
but was anxious to see her hand

She told me she could wait for me 

and I answered I could do the same 

but when the dust had settled 

she had won our little game

I tried to cheat Death
and her twin sister Fate
I had the dream, I had the heart 

I realized I was human only too late


Campfire 


Solitary source, light permeates
and attracts. 

They light on the glass face 

Neon-bright tube inside: the siren. 

Enticed, I watch as they search in vain
to find an opening, a tiny crack 

to admit them into the warm presence- 

the irresistible aura. 

I realize I’m the same. 

The spark, the light shines from you
it seems, generated by some mystery 

in your heart’s depth. 

Some pertinent fact I should have acknowledged 

goes unnoticed until now: 

Eureka! Like the lamp you shine, 

piercing the darkness around you 

but in reflection, lunar fashion. 

You’ve kept your heart open and polished
and it reflects the Son’s light. 

The depth is seen in you, but found in him.

r.v.


Pick-Up 


Air-rush, glides over fingertips 

Green lunacy slides backwards in the mirror 

Growing down the track 

The sunshine lazed lucidity 

is the only emotion (or lack of all)
to the sun glint in the cracked glass. 

The wind is blowing backwards 

the things follow in regal procession
Am I really going forward? 

Or caught up in illusion of regression 

I know truth 

Truth is in me 

But human is too and I fall
Victim to secret mugging 

Bashed skull to wood 

I swore never again to stand where I stood 

crushed seat of judgment 

the expression is costly 

Uncaring I speak 

“So Baby, what’s your spiritual gift?”
fate is sealed with a kiss 

Eternity a dream I will miss.

a.m.

Strange Brew 


I do what I say, 

say what I do 

unless I happen to be with you.

Live my passion 

to the limit 

the problem is you can’t be in it.

Why can’t I be me with you? 

Love and reserve make a strange brew
If I’d never known I wouldn’t mind 

because then You wouldn’t affect what I do.

I’d give all I could
But it’s already been given
Drink my poison to be shriven

It’s not bad except when 

I can’t stand it 

If I don’t cry it doesn’t hurt a bit.

Either way you tear me apart 

Each moment with you I lose more of my soul 

And with out your care I don’t feel home.

a.m.


Hope Trap 


Beat a freak

the bunk you speak 

confused your mind- 

you can not link 

Convince the mass 

with sleeping gas 

destroy the truth 

revert the facts

You ate the devil’s pomegranate 

You’re trapped in hell and can not stop it 

You caught the power, or the power caught you 

Repeat the cycle, it’s all you can do

Lines of grey 

in the fray 

Right & Wrong 

you lead astray 

blast the power 

mushroom flower
end the innocence
in a fallout shower

You stole away Pandora’s box 

scratched the wood and broke the locks 

let illusion get away 

it taints your thoughts everyday 



All’s Cool In Wellville And Other Unattainables 


I 

A lone figure strode out of the trees
to day, where he still walked in shadow, 

as though something passed between 

him and the Son.
In agony his journey made-
a desperate, blind search for
a future, a dream. 

Somewhere inside, the path had been laid, 

the direction given.
Insecurity, though, hindered and constant 

second-guessing lent strength to his nightmares, 

dreamt in oblivion. 

Incapable of keeping his sanity in static existence,
he began his journey to capture a spark of life, 

if it still endured. 

He scoffed at knowledge,
his teachers had been blown apart in their
two-dimensional vitality. 

His enemies, those whose words he had been warned against, 

now seemed to brim with the possibility of
wisdom. 

He led a life of detachment, 

where the paradox of being separated disconnected him even more.
In dreams, his expectations past childhood were void,
and now, half-believing in this melancholy reality, 

he wandered in obscurity. 

Secretly building up perfection,
but never daring to hope that it might come true.
So through the turmoil of life he trudged, 

insatiable in his search for contentment. 

His worn leather backpack hanging askew, 

(though it fit like some strange tumor)
its sun washed hue matching that of 

the tattered buckskin of the man’s clothing 

and his weather beaten skin. 

He stopped as he noticed a sign by the side of the path, 

“Welcome to Wellville,” 

the message simple, but not applicable,
for there was nothing but grass and
a few towering trees whose posture
told of old age and wisdom. 

As he moved forward again, 

dust fell from his feet, 

too tired to continue this journey.
Somehow, his fatigue had by-passed his mind,
leaving his perception ringingly clear and 

his thoughts entirely lucid. 

Suddenly, to his left, he saw a 

shining unicorn stately step
from its shade beneath a tree. 

Only it wasn’t a mythical beast,
a woman dressed in silver 

whispered a greeting from, seemingly, 

the eyes that held him in check. 

They spoke of restrained longing
that fearful curiosity kept prisoner.
She invited the stranger into the 

shade of a tree and bid him rest. 

As he sat, drank sparkling dew 

from a cup-shaped leaf, 

she knelt, oblivious of her shining raiment,
in the dust to tend to his 

travel-beaten feet, 

the constant companions that had propelled 

him on that well-traveled but unkempt path, 

Life, that had led him here. 

He wondered how many travelers, 

plodding this way, went on not knowing of the
joy that he felt lived behind each shadow. 

He marveled at this creature, she,
seemingly unknowing of her obvious rank, 

began the most menial task of washing his feet 

and balming the wounds thereon.
As he closed his eyes, the traveler 

looked once more into the two unfathomable 

pools that sat in place of her eyes, 

they burning with the promise 

of forgotten (or yet undiscovered) treasure
beneath those depths, 

let his gaze travel down the proud nose,
to the lips that spoke soothing words. 

Instructed him to lose himself in dream.

II 

The sun ghost coin set in heavy haze. 

The green below so alive it seemed to
writhe in its primal effort to grow. 

Alien sounds of screeching, calling suggest 

that the activity here is ancient, and secret. 

The origins of these sounds lost in shadow 

they try to deceive the ears. 

The air is thick, tangible, 

sentient, it knows that it is a servant,
but is proud of its station, 

its ability to assist in the life of some
and the living of others. 

Then the sun breaks the watery veil,
at the same time a huge black 

eagle in flight, its proud majestic plumage 

catching the silver glint of the sun 

as it is framed against the eternal blue 

of the sky, dives. 

As he hangs suspended between the two
massive walls of stone on either side, 

this Great Rift holding a boiling cauldron of life, 

he floats above where cooling winds 

allow for thought. 

Then, folding wings underneath, 

plummets earthward toward a lively sea of green. 

His sharp eyes peering into the deep shadows
where sustaining life hides, partly in fear, 

and in envy of his ability to roam free. 

His home perched precariously between 

the teeming mass of life below that has always 

been his dominion, and the all-knowing, 

seldom forgiving mystery of nothing above. 

Wings shift slightly, 

initiate a smooth dip. 

The curving arc of his flight leaving
afterimages where the rushing air is displaced. 

Soaring again heavenward, toward the 

nest in the cliff, then up past, and up 

where skies so clear could induce insanity. 

Dream fades to a landscape postcard 

as the avatar of his soul circles eternally 

against the rainbow-washed sky
and 
flaming orb on the edge of the world.

III 

The grey clouded sky that rests on the
far-off horizon seems a distant cousin only 

of the early twilight blue of the overhead skies. 

The green rolling hills of a fairy tale 

backdrop for the stone cottage 

its open inviting windows and hint of smoke 

wiping from the chimney gives a cheery ambiance
to the home. 

He walks arm in arm, over the ancestral sod 

of Eire, with a strangely familiar woman. 

Her scent clean and beautiful as her face,
pure as a vanilla blossom. 

The springy turf underfoot eagerly speeds 

them on their way, reminding them that
the spirit of millenias of their clans
lie buried here, whose coincidences of combination 

lend strength to their own. 

Eventually, their conversation,
reverently quiet before, 

is entirely drowned out as the sound
of a babbling brook pushes itself into acknowledgment. 

The path, noticeably well-used
stops at the foot of a silver waterfall 

that spills down black rocks, their purpose
apparently to show off the cascade. 

The green fades darker into this scene
where a smooth bench of stone holds 

the two happy souls in adoration
it seems the two have become
a jewel and outshine their green and black setting. 

Then all other movement ceases as they 

lean closer together, the man and this 

strangely familiar woman, 

and lose themselves in the passion of a kiss. 

Unbeknownst to them, the couple has erased 
time,
as in their minds they have run 

through all of dreams and approached
the thought of eternity, blacked out into 

nothing but sensual creatures. 

The waterfall begins again, and the grass once again 

glows vibrantly as, hand in hand, they 

start homeward, silhouetted against the warm 

orange-reds of a sinking Northern sun.

IV
Towering sandstone cliffs
ensconce the thundering waters that 

He soon will enter. 

They, the only ones alive here
ignore their misgivings
and in their raft plunge headlong into
the raging torrent of movement that
is the river. 

Through this, the home of the ancient ones,
they ride the animal that at once 

wants to destroy them beneath the silver-speckled froth,
and then speed them downstream
in a schizophrenic frenzy 

to leave them at rest in a quiet pool
below the cliffs. 

They clamber out, 

taking backpacks and rope
to conquer the vast walls that stretch onward up.
With tireless efforts of ants gathering food, 

they find handholds to pull themselves 

up, the timeless rock
indifferent to this human insect scaling its height. 

The man, as unknowing of the canyon’s
sentience as it’s uncaring of his, drives
steel spikes into the ribs of this sleeping behemoth,
leaving a trail of his hurried search 

fast fleeting dreams.
Breathlessly, he reaches the top. 

The decaying houses of Indians long dead 

only half as awe-inspiring as the panorama
at his feet. 

The setting sun a reminder of the Anasazi
who once stood there and talked to God.

V 

Small engines flutter to life as 

a small group of brave individuals
step aboard, take the first step in affirming
that they can conquer the Final Fear. 

The plane mounts the elevated roadway,
climbs toward the thin wisps of cloud 

whose reaching tendrils mark the boundary
between the terrestrial body of air
and the infinite nothing past. 

The craft levels off, 

passengers make final preparations 

to leap; look and laugh death in the face. 

One by one they step into the opening 

and disappear into the blue void. 

He was last, gave credence to 

his theory that misery wasn’t the
only one who loves company. 

And he flew. 

Not as a bird, but as himself.
A human stepping past the boundary 

of his mortality, the winds once again 

whip past his being,
lifting, carrying, but he controls it.
The earth now a patchwork model,
rushing in timeless slow-motion.
He realizes that he has no pack, no chute. 

The feeling of his internals disintegrating,
and he became immortal in that instant.

Suddenly, flash to black, 

opening of eyelids to the strangely familiar woman,
her lips leaving his in reverent caution. 

Back beneath the tree, and only moments later!

VI 

The sheer weight of realizing his dreams
(and that he was capable of aspiration),
still flagging his thought, 

he tries to orient himself. 

Memories dance in the 

conflagration of the kiss. 

She gently wipes a tear from his cheek,
smiles inside that it could touch him so. 

From nowhere, she produces a well-worn hat
made of tanned leather, 

places it on his head, it blends. 

He feels its magic wash away confusion. 

“Es iste ein zauber hatte.”
(it is a magic hat.) 

He knows the words but not the language,
it soothes his soul. 

A stray beam of sunlight lands
on his face and spills a warm shower
down his body. 

He is glad that the fear to stop 

was overcome, wonders what 

would have been his life 

had he not stopped. 

Recognizes his need to move, 

to stay here forever. 

The totality of his dreams together, 

the culmination to this moment 

has all led to her. 

The unconditional caring, though masked. 

The ageless beauty of silver in her soul. 

The cliff at which he now stands, 

looks over the edge. 

To walk away would mean safety,
but not knowing. 

To jump, walk the air between here
and that dream world below. 

He has never approached something with so much dread, 

wondering what keeps him going against his better judgment:
is it fate, 

or some perverse sense of humour on the part
of the eternal? 

Nevertheless, he moves forward, 

dreams slowly swallow his senses
in blackness and he remembers
the forgotten.

VII
Alone, no magic this time. 

He lets the tears fall again. 

The black void in this place emanates from him. 

A vacuum sucking hope from nothing, his heart 

realizes his loneliness is a state of not-being. 

He’s not moving, so all this nothing 

must be coming to him. 

Then, she is in front of him again.
Her beauty is still unmistakable underneath
a mask of sorrow, 

the visible representation of her imprisonment. 

The gravity of her feelings pulls her countenance down. 

With a drugged voice, she tells him only two things, 

but they speak volumes. 

He supposes the words are meant 
for him,
and listens, intent on understanding. 

“Dreams can’t be realized until 

you do something about them,” 

but discouragement stems from always 

reaching, falling short of those unattainable
products of the imagination. 

“The incredible thing about pain is: when you 

stop thinking about it, it goes away.” 

He makes the connection!
Being discouraged only comes when you
think about the failure, and that 

keeps you from striving ahead.
In total abandon, he throws emotions at her,
and she cringes, cries out that she 

can’t give back, not now. 

But he understands now, 

he has more than enough to give. 

His whole journey down the Path
striving for individuality, 

he had fallen behind his guide, 

given over to self and trying to avoid
hurt, only to cut his feet as he 

stepped over the stones, 

where the Son could have carried him. 

Realizing, in almost religious rapture,
light streaming into eyes that 

before were scaled over.
Once again he experiences that warm
shower of emotion. 

You can’t fly free until you’ve been tied down. 

The eagles nest. 

His home and family.
Ancestral roots. 

Being tethered to the ground by lack of wing.
Letting someone take over your soul…
In it all he had come to fathom
he wasn’t incapable of visualization, 

just that he had refined perfection 

to the point that nothing else would satisfy.
And it is all in her! 

If he had to wait another thousand lifetimes,
learn her ways, discern her thoughts,
it would be reward enough in the end. 

Wanting to wake and tell her, he scrambles wildly back toward
the source of light. 

But, turning, she is already there.
All that he needs is assurance - more than words, 

than actions. Enough that in itself
it articulates and is, indeed.
She smiles, understanding. 

The message is once again conveyed 

through her eyes, 

let’s dream.

j.h.


Stick To It 


Velcro Man.
I lovingly sort my lint 

my hold is secure but flexible,
I feel it when you leave- 

hold on to what’s left. 

These details are what I live for. 

The odd little jobs. Obtain, 

Maintain, Regain. 

High-Maintenance woman. 

Maintenance Man. 

The job is a perfect match. 

I enjoy it. 

The yard doesn’t need to give any more appreciation 

for the attention it gets than 

its being. Its beauty. 

Just the same for you.
Don’t try to hard. 

“Hakuna Matata.”
I’m not worried. 

I may not know what the future holds,
but I know who holds the future.
I know who made me the velcro man. 

I know who will help me stick to it.

r.v.


Shelf-Life 


Like an automaton, she moves mechanically, 

carefully wiping the dust from the collected treasures
some she lovingly caresses,
others merely performs the perfunctory functions.
One strangely bulbous object
in a jar on the table: the label on the jar identifies
the pulsating object inside.
On one side a list of ingredients, 

on the other a series of names- 

written, scratched out, and re-written. 

For the last time she picks 

up the jar and tries to understand it.
the glass is impenetrable, and 

discouraged, she walks to the windowsill, 

empties the jar’s contents. 

She is crying- 

two glistening drops fall on the heart.
Silver wings emerge, germinated by 

the sorrowful precipitation. 

She turns her back. 

It flies, but not through the open window. 

Rather to a top shelf, there in the dark recesses,
far from the flickering light of the
fire the wings metamorphasize into the 

bloody rags of what could have been a glove 

wraps itself, shivering. 

Its essence misting in fear and frustration 

no eyes: no tears. 

No mouth: no angry words. 

Just the decision to be made…
It continues beating, venting emotion,
like some organic potpourri. 

In its cocoon, hopes to become 

pilfer-proof, from the growing pain. 

To be preserved, until found again. 

The empty jar, fragmented in the yard
sun glints from the shards. 

Two labels remain: 

“Friends, maybe something more.” 

“Shelf-life: unknown.”

r.v.


Hesitant Mustangs 


A study in form 

the aesthetics of movement 

captured in a still frame 

silver moonlight strikes the mustang’s 

bronze back with a metallic clang, 

catches the spray as the leader 
plunges through the water. 

I turn, and gaze at my companion, 

she is smiling, her beauty radiates 

a light of its own.
She comments wonderingly at 

the detail captured here. 

The flaring nostrils, wide eyes, 

veins bulging, full of pumping life. 

She notices a colt, hesitating 

on the bank. 

It is the first time she’s seen it. 

I wonder why it has struck a chord?
Why is it scared? 

What could be holding it back? 

Does she relate? 

Almost home, she takes me
by surprise, articulates
a feeling that has been repressed.
What is the purpose? 

Does she merely want to say it,
get it off her chest?
Or is she looking for a reaction? 

All at once, desires that 

had been controlled are clamoring,
questioning, wanting to know if 

there is a kindred spirit. 

Then I’m reminded why the questions 

have never been asked, re-resolve 

to allow the plan to work 

out in His time 

Draw a line separating
challenging
and she crosses it to 

take me in her arms.

r.v.


Pieces Of You

I’ve seen part of it 

in the mist that ensconces 

the pines like Christmas candles
the mystery, the adventure, 

the legend. 

I’ve heard it in the river 

as it smooths over the sand 

and rocks, cutting through time:
the fun, the timelessness. 

The strength
I saw a bird looking
for the same, walking by 

the side of the road. 

Eyes darting back and forth 

restlessly, searching 

the needle carpet. 

The piece of himself 

that soaring was not the same without, 

patiently he seeks it so that 

he may return to the wild blue heaven. 

His heart.
I’ve seen fragments pieced together
in a life where He has put everything 

else in place, try as I might, flight 

isn’t the same without that whole that 

fills the hole. 

You.

r.v.


Cultivating Eternity

When in friendship
a sweeter bloom is found 

and hearts conspire
to endure, 

then love is begun.
Commitment past feeling, 

past gain, and unselfish. 

Patience is the touchstone.
A ringing laugh, a 

comforting shoulder. 

Completing presence. 

No explosions or neon signs,
just a still small voice, guiding in His will.
Slowly build tolerance
to avoid allergic reaction. 

No additives or preservatives.
Unlimited shelf-life.

r.v.


Missing

Fall asleep
lonely helmsman.
Dream of crystal waters where
you can reach down at will 

and scoop up the gold dust at the bottom,
sift through your fingers, diamond chips specked with gold. 

Stormy skies, raging waves:
stormy eyes. 

Lightning and fire passionately 

play the light reflected there. 

Imaginative mind games, 

self-stimulation. Keeps me busy 

when I’m far from home. 

(Home is where the heart is) 

I eat the salt tears, 

where the prow has cut the wave, 

mine own when solitude (self-pity)
sails my sea of thought 

Down below I cry 

“Master, save us!” 

He wakes, majesty shines from him 

as when a tawny lion stretches itself after nap,
Calms the storm with a word.
At once I am grateful and humbled, 

the wind was His all along and all I needed
was to lay my troubles on Him.


Natural Selection

Thunder rolls, 

the ground rumbles
in bass vibrato, or
is it me: pent up, 

restless energy? 

The rhythm of the rain lulls me to sleep- 

lacksadasical dream. 

Waking: hello enigma, angel queen. 

Tell me your intentions, 
be they base or sublime.
And what of this sweet gift,
can you mean it to mine? 

A silver-inlaid dream, 

reflections of moonlight
on inverted blooms,
hung faithfully 
to dry with other memories.
The beauty changes but is not lost. 

Evolves from what it was: 

fresh, new, vibrant - into 

trust, contentment, and comfort, and in these 

a cycle of new growth and enjoyment. 

They stay fresh if kept up,
their perfume remains. 

Thunder rolls again.
I smile. 

This is when I feel most alive. 

Somewhere, miles away you think of me,
And the warm thought covers me
as I slip back to rest.

r.v.


Liar

I asked my friend to protect me. 

He gave me the chalice of danger.
I asked him to keep me strong. 

He gave me forgetfulness to drink. 

I asked him to control what he had no business in, 

and he geared it to his desire. 

I asked the wrong friend. 

Now drunk on my betrayal,
I sit, dunce-cap marks my spot. 

No corner for protection, 
my conscience won’t let me sleep,
where dreams plague, destroy any rest. 

I fretfully scan the edge of the fading light. 

Misused emotion and wasted time pummel 

from all directions. 

Useless thoughts 

wasted trys 

I struggle to open my eyes. 

European dreams, 

European things,
Long European hair 

buzz-cut short.
I rock, 

sob silently
trying to understand
that I’m screwed. 

I never lied, except to myself.
I can’t trust me. 

Never believe a dreamer,
Time will make a liar of him every chance.

c.h. & e.p.


Storm Horses 


Ocean-echo, millions of drops of spray on
the roof, prolong the underwater feeling
of slow motion.
If wishes were horses I’d have ridden 

to you at the first clap of thunder, 

eager to be rocked to sleep in your arms 

with the lullaby of each drop. 

I’m torn between responsibility and desire,
and which in the long run will hold out. 

The first, I think, has a stronger base.

r.v.


Garden Asylum 


Waiting 

bunch-curled in the midst 

of overgrown, wild tangle- 

this garden, once a haven 

is now asylum for catatonic 

eyes that can only see what is in here, 

severed from the ordinary world. 

Raw beauty of nature in painful shades
of red and tranquilizing greens 

bordered at the claustrophobic horizons by 

cool grey stones. 

We built them and I stand guard. 

Out here, in the perimeter, we 

go crazy silently, and eagerly toy 

with the cold dark infinity. 

Every day at dawn, a pow-wow
with the past residents 

and dirges sung for dreams sought
and lost. They don’t die here, 

just quietly waste away, everyday 

withdrawing into their walls. 

Turned inside out.
No fear, no anger, no hope -
they take too much energy 

better spent in thoughtful recollections 

of nothing - in stark blankness 

anesthetic white eases apprehension.
Inhibition and obedience become
traditions lost in dew, evaporate 

with glaring starlight. 

Fragile mists eat at the edges,
haze the boundaries. 

Clear, piercing gaze belies vegetable state,
and camouflage is nearly perfect. 

Pretends he is the rose and retracts petals -
back past bud and stem, to the birth 

of flower in dream. Men with hearts,
and their women who lie and betray them 

might someday hope him back into existence 

on a momentary whim, and he’ll prepare
to fade into nothingness so that man 

will have a place to reflect 

when he has to walk away from 

the silver shards of shattered mirrors 

that distorted his life,
and new tears will hit the ground, 

mist into the poisonous vapour
that will carry him on the way 

to becoming mad. 

The garden door is opening,
a hand slips through, holding
the key that is supposed to stay hidden in crawling vines. 

This stranger comes unannounced but since 

he comes, he is brother. 

I’d cry with him, but I’ve forgotten how.
Instead smile grimly and close my eyes
on this feast of pity and let
my brain melt and run out my 

ears, drip on dirt and metamorphasize into
worms and feast on friends: 

kings, old men, poets 

who lied here to form a lonely outpost
nowhere in the vicinity of the soul.

j.h.


Making A Door 


I stand inside my garden walls
and the sweet smell of roses can
no longer mask the odour of 

rotting dreams, decomposing shades of myself. 

I don’t want to be here alone, 

but the walls are protecting me, 

all too well, keeping me in.
I hear you outside. I want to let you in,
but this old plot
is not suitable, it can no longer 

cultivate life.
Slowly, with measured steps, 

I approach the wall. 

I notice one stone I loose 

and remove it, carry it 

to the center, then return, and repeat. 

These walls are difficult to tear down. 

Built of naïve hopes, what
once seemed solid is 

now styrofoam illusion.
Cold mortar, old and crumbled,
falls to the ground. 

It, the substance that 

held all these things together
now lacks strength 

(if it ever held any). 

As I carry these memories
to where I have piled
the carcasses of those dreams, 

to build a cairn - 

a bittersweet reminder
and caution - but not altar.
Finally, I have broken the wall, 

and you stand there smiling 

ever patiently, arms outstretched
open to greet and accept. 

I want to invite you in, 

to assist in my constructive deconstruction. 

The climbing limbs of rosebushes
press against the remaining wall,
yearning to break the barrier, 

like me, spill free into that 

wide everything, to bask in it’s light,
grow in it’s untarnished soil. 

With reserved boldness, I too stretch
forth my hand in invitation - 

articulate my desire to give you entrance 

into my heart of being, my soul, 

can I trust you with the invitation? 

I think I can.

r.v.


There Comes Another

It’s midnight in the garden 

my walls are all torn down 

there comes another through the gate 

he instinctively finds his way through the
dark portal and trailing vines
the only remnant 

he takes up residence easily
each has waited for the other 

lusty spirits sound as the tenant
has begun to build, piece by piece,
from the cairn, releasing those demons 

His silver-moon reflected orbs
stare wildly through tears 

A void where his crusade has 

turned inward and found the door blocked
The roses too have turned dark and thorny 

and feed on the pain he bleeds 

reach inward to comfort him
with 
their sharp beauty
and caress him with dark velvet forgetfulness
An automaton, he moves back and forth, 

noiselessly, mindlessly building 

a protection and haven 

His wall is smaller than mine 

and there is enough stone left for a throne 

I gladly let him rule the ruin 

this Arthur whose chain is his skin 

his lady stolen by those thoughts within 

a toad his usurper, 

a dark troll of fantasy making is the beast 

It’s mid-day in the garden where good 

and evil are twins, but to the new king
the world is still dim. 

The sun, in reverence, shines behind a veil of mist
Motionless, the granite within molds 

him to his earthy seat, stone of heart
and of will blend to build his part. 

Transfixed as he is, he can not notice
Those spirits harpies whose claws are
the memories reshaped in his head 

The roses frame his regal smile and
throw shadows into those moonstruck eyes 
now dead. 
 


Thoughts and Remembrances

More poetry migration from the old website. I thought I'd spare us all the pain of seeing each of this posted separately. This is the earliest poetry I have. Much of it is childish (though I'm impressed some of these insights).

Did I say sophomoric? I was being kind...

These poems date from Spring 1994-Spring 1995

___________________________________

Thoughts and Remembrances

Dead Man’s Float

A pool, deep and dark 
sprung from long shed tears; 

shed for loss of hope 
not pain nor any fear.
And I sit at the bottom 
of same said pool. 

Drowning in my own misery, 
a sad lonely fool.

How many times, now and again, 

have I tried ascending to the light? 

But, chained in the murk and the dark

never to escape the horrible night.

At my folly cry miserably. 

“Is escape impossible,” 

I ask myself again and again, 

“from this wicked pool?”

Tears 

Today I’m standing on the edge of 

a rift opened just yesterday 

by falling tears and fears 

hurled by some thoughtless demon.

A huge fault which issued 

the substance that has now stained 

my world with its somber hue.

An outpouring from the inner insanity.

So I write: an effort to keep it from consuming, a barrier to keep me from falling in. 

The words help to fill the void, the peace from me which has been ripped.

A proclamation of defiance,

I cry because I feel wronged. 

I wonder whose world my tears 

and fears are tearing apart.

So I wait, knowing that only

time can and will heap experience 

and learning into this crack

that by tears was made and by tears must be filled.
b.y.

Countdown To Insanity 

The incessant ticking drones on. 

A clock though audible is yet unseen.

Keeping the time, counting down 

hours and days, but to what end?

Some need, as of yet undefined,

lies just out of reach, and I fear 

my time to accomplish is almost up 

not knowing what to look for and still trying hard to find it.

Like beating your head against a pillow,

no progress, just loss of energy. 

Give me a brick wall to hit, 

then something will crack.

Maybe a wish from a star, and by the time it comes true I’ve changed my mind. 

Futile. Like hanging the wash out in the rain.

The clock is now visible and it reads half past insane.

Dream Tower 

His worn boots scuff against the street. 

The holes in his soles leave nothing

but his socks between the pavement and his feet. 

And the dude just keeps on walking.

In the desert somewhere he notices the black velvet framing the stars.
There is cold electricity in the air, 
something will happen soon.

Trying not to pay attention to the voices in his head,

he stands still, arms upraised 

He hears a silent shrieking 
like the voices of the dead.
And he begins to rise.

Now suspended over the sand, 

the voice becomes coherent. 

There is a realization of purpose 

like the rebirth of a thought that once seemed bland.
His calling is known.

The poet wakes, refreshed, 

knowing he was meant to do this.

A thought as big as eternity is captured,

and he writes it down.
(A Dark Tower tribute)

The Man In The Moon 

The moon peers down, 

warily eyeing this strange 

and unnatural world. 

He does wonder what will happen tonight, and he will see it all.

How many nights did I 

lie awake and stare at the moon? 

Thinking about you and us 

not another thing entered my mind. 

And the man in the moon watched it all.

I gave all that was in me to give, 

but you sliced my heart with a two-edged blade:

You said it was over and that there was really nothing there to begin with. 

But the man in the moon saw it all.

I took it all in stride, kept it all inside.

Now I sit alone by choice, rather lack of choice. 

I have my choice of many, but am still confused by you.

It is certain that I will rise and become better; wanted.

And you and the man in the moon will watch it all.
b.y.

A Loss From Words 

His smile is fixed and dreamy- 

he doesn’t know what to say; 

his language is mostly written.

So he just stares at the face so beautiful, 

he is lost in her eyes.

His glance, hardly casual, 

is caught, and just for a moment, 

one fleeting second, there is no need for words. 

Then it passes, almost unnoticed.

She says it’s just as well.

Just one word would have done the trick. 

But at a loss for words,

those precious commodities, 

he can only smile- 

the smile of a would be romantic.

In A Mirror 

The person in the mirror

stares back in matched silence. 

Reflecting the emptiness 

of an unfulfilled dream.

Only a picture on a stagnant pool- 

the surface image merely a front.

Hiding the turbulence beneath; 

the turbulence inside of me.

Drawing Sunglasses 

You looked at me, I looked away and 

silently prayed, ”Don’t see me this way!” 

Tears hang precariously in the corner of my eye.

I’m on the verge of a fall.

Pictures spring to life, fury animates them. 

A movie devoid of sound plays in my head. 

The meanings invoked just infuriate. 

I can’t deal with this, you, me.

The picture finds it way out, 

leaves an imprint on a piece of paper. 

I see your tears, but I can’t let you see mine. 

I hide my eyes.
b.y.

Anymore 

I used to put up with it, 

just let it slide. 

Problem after problem, 

I guess I’ve built a pretty thick hide-

To stand unfeeling, unflinching,

while these fiery darts fly. 

But to stand it anymore, 

I’d just be letting my sanity die.

I must speak my mind, 

and make it clear. 

Put in my two-cents worth 

for everyone to hear.

Stand up for me,

and what I think is right.

Never let anything go,

at least not without a fight.

I was letting my soul die

like a slowly fading light. 

But not anymore. 

It’s time to take control.

There’s a bomb called crazy in me ticking, 

and it’s ready to explode.

Love Is…
It is the color around us, 

It shows itself in nature.

It is what attracts us. 

Love is beauty.

It tells us to be original.

It allows us to be ourselves,

because that is what we love. 

Love is freedom.

It has a beat. 

It plays an inaudible melody. 

We are constantly singing it. 

Love is music.

It makes us want to be wanted- 

inside that encircling warmth.

Love is hate: 

hating to be alone.

Didn’t Learn
Standing alone and crying, in an open corner of a burned out universe. 

The butt of many a cruel joke

played at whim by my own diabolical heart- 

I withdraw.

Sitting alone and wondering,

now too empty to feel the pain. 

Where did I so terribly err,

and pull myself into this black hole? 

I forget.

Lying alone and forgotten,

the heart I so desperately used

falls apart from constant abuse.

Glad to be out of my misery,
too torn up to care- 

I try again.

Knock Me Senseless
Her beauty is beyond speaking

I can not tell her.

It stops me dead in my tracks,

but the words to tell her I do lack.

To see what I can not have, 
it is torture. 

Oh, that I were blind.

She speaks and all else is quiet; 

waiting anxiously.

I hang on her every word. 

If they were just for me…

but that will never be. 

So I am in torment. 

Oh, to be deaf.

Those hands, so soft and gentle, 

If I could just touch them… 

To hold those blessed hands. 

But they will never be gentle with me.
So I must try to live without it. 

Oh, to be senseless, 

and enjoy not knowing.

Safe from that lovely evil.

Realized Potential 

I know that distant look. 

I’ve seen it many times in a mirror.

The dream, just realized,

is playing itself out like a book.

The possibilities unfolding 

never before noticed.

Startled awake like a cymbal crash-

the sound will in your ears always ring.

Persistent, until completed and put away

to remind of past victory and agony. 

A constant personal applause. 

Carpe Diem! Seize the Day!

Fairy Ring 

We found it early one morning

before the dusk turned to light

a wondrous discovery. 

A perfect ring of forced stillness.

Did you watch

as the silken mist

drew slowly back into the shadows,

revealing the night’s secrets?

The scattered remains 

of last night’s festivity

strewn about in tiny fragments

of leaves, flowers, and vines.

Hidden deep in the forest. 

A tiny opening to the sky.

The magic circle of enchantment

where the fairies will dance again tonight.

Last Night 

Last night I dreamed I’d died and gone to heaven. 

But it was only a dream and I awoke at seven. 

It bothered me and made me think. 

And the answer pushed me close to insanity’s brink. 

I didn’t know if I’d see you there.

It’s not decided by your life, if you drink or smoke. 

But by rather trusting in a single person. 

Believing that by his awesome power, 

He can save you from Hell’s fire and brimstone shower.
And the reason it bothered me so much,

is because I didn’t know if I’d lose touch 

with you when you died, 
or if I’d see you on the other side.
j.k.

The Love Cycle 

Love is the creator of all. 

All life comes from love. 

Without love, there would be no life. 

Without life, there would be no you. 

Without you, I would have no love. 


Too Late? 

Why must I choose the chosen? 

Not once, but once again.

I can see where it’s going, I’ve been there before.

It’s unstoppable, and soon I’ll be sore.

Not physically, but mentally, and spiritually.

In truth I’m not wounded by them,
but rather by me, sad but true.

I suppose it’s good that into my deeds I’m so insightful.

But it’s hard to stop, it’s so delightful.

I see the mistake I’m making, 

but it’s true, all the good ones are taken.

Opposites Detract 

Cold, so cold and yet I’m on fire.

I feel so low, but I couldn’t possibly go any higher. 

Perfect order in a world where confusion reigns, 

Chaos builds, the mind strains.

I could stand it, it wouldn’t be so bad, 
If it weren’t my happiness that made me sad.

Laceration
Love is like an open cut,

If it is touched it will hurt. 

Eventually, the cut will heal and form a scar, 

But that scar is in a very important place. 

Every time you move, the scar is tight. 

And if you move too much, the cut will break open again.

Today 

Today we met, 

time stood still.

I hope I will always feel this way.

I won’t forget.

Today I sat 

watching the phone. 

Waiting; if I’d only known you wouldn’t call…

I won’t forget.

The days flew past, 

not much lasts, 

especially if you pretend

nothing ever happened.

Today, one year later,

I’m still thinking of you; 

the only person who ever made me feel this way. 

No, I didn’t forget.

I’m watching the rain 

fall like it did one year ago.

I still haven’t forgotten. 

And, try as I might, I can’t forget.

Exit Center Stage 

Hello, I’d like to welcome you

to a scene; eerie,

cold, and blue.

Try to think of it as the passing of an old friend, 

who try as he might, can not his own problems mend.

The body, battered and frail, 

lies on his deathbed dying.

In the distance, someone crying.

In an instant, a dream shattered by a word. 

Intangible versus the all too real. 

Although it is enough from me to steal.

Now the killer over the body is leaning, 

whispering words loudly, 

but they have all lost their meaning.
Her open mouth a gaping black hole. 

Eyes lock, he sits up and screams- 

“It’s too late, see the eternity of a soul!”

Individuality 

I am flying, I am flying. 

Is this what it feels like to be dying? 

Feels so gentle, yet so harsh. 

Seeing light in the dark.

Understanding, yet not knowing. 

My ignorance is now showing. 

Overshadowed always by fear. 

Now I feel I must shed this tear.

Treasures unimaginable, riches beyond measure. 

Days filled with endless boundless pleasure. 

For me it’s too late, try if you can to run. 

We’ve only scratched the surface, we’ve just begun.
Reaching, reaching, almost there.

Now I’ve missed it by a hair. 

Should I continue this futile chase, 

or return to life’s usual mellow pace?

Without the risk life’s not worth living. 

Never truly happy unless always giving 

a piece of yourself to each and every one.

But what happens when you’re all gone?

What Is A Like? 

What would it mean if I were to say I like you? 

There are no other feelings besides love and hate. 

Only greater and lesser degrees of one or the other.

The Beginning…To The End 

Opening… 

seeing through to a new world. 

Colour… 

Flooding in, overwhelming. 

Shapes fleet across the mind. 

Searing into memory. 

The first sight.

Reaching,

finding, holding on. 

Weak finds strong, 

safe and secure. 

A small child clings to his mother.

Small, short,

infrequent staggering. 

Then falling, once again standing straight. 

The first steps.

Insignificant, 

yet, the most important person, 

Scared, 

somehow intrigued. 

Teachers, classmates. 

The first day of school.

Free at last, 

walking on air. 

Confusion. 

Choices to make: 

jobs, college. 

Graduation Day.

Responsibilities,

bills, payments, 

worries. 

Children, love,

misunderstandings. 

Family.

Breaking the last ties. 

Leaving behind: 

loved ones possessions.

Once again seeing a new world. 

Bigger, better,

deeper.

Starvation 

Along the line of beasts, 

there’s one of mine I like the least. 

He is a selfish, mindless, slobbering pig. 

The noise he makes is mighty big. 

If one day you should catch a glimpse of him, pay no attention.

Let him cry soundlessly, 
“Feed me pity!”

Falling Apart
Tears increasing, never ceasing. 

The loss of hope is the loss of life.

Feelings building, trying to break loose, 

tightening around my neck like a noose.

Trying to strangle, set free. 

But no, something, someone calls me.

No longer do I want to leave. 

My heart, but deeper my love calls me.

Love so much it breaks my heart. 

Now I’m falling apart.

Song Of Deceit 

Could it be I ever believed 

love so true,

and was badly deceived? 

Singing as song of true bliss.
In my mind knowing it’s false, wrong,

something is amiss. 

Although I try, could it be 

It’s my fault, I did not see?

But I tried my best, 

and yet I failed.

Now like a lonely wolf, wail
my grievances at the moon.

I must let it out now,

I’ll be dying soon.

If not the whole, 

at least the part that wanted you for me as a goal.

Change Of Perspective 

We find ourselves backed against a wall. 

Once the initial shock is gone, 

we see it’s no predicament at all.

Now we can see the wall more clearly.

Tripping over a stone. 

Falling to the ground. 

We found we broke no bone, 

and from the fall a refreshing new view is found.

So the next time you yourself in a tight spot find, 

for which there seems no rhyme or reason; 

what you found may not be what you were looking for,

but you found it in due season.

Autumn On Memory Lane
Gone is the summer heat.

Crisp leaves crunch beneath soft feet. 

Looking for lost memories.

Month of Sundays

Month of Sundays

A Collection of Short Poetry
By
Jonathan Kotinek
An Introduction to the Title and Text

Sunday, in our culture, is a day of rest. It is the Protestant appropriation of the Sabbath, and as such has often come into conflict with the ever-growing Humanism that is the natural child of Protestantism. The Sabbath was instituted by God to inform Man of his need for physical rest and inward reflection. For me, Sunday is the beginning of the workweek, the day when I have to stick my nose back in the books; it is the end of my week-end.

What I have tried to synthesize here is the dichotomy that exists between those two ideas. The self-improvement side of this project is informed by my return to labour, while the self-expression side is coloured by my need to explore the means and ends of language: what it is, what it does, and how I use it. My use of the title phrase is deliberate because it has a socially marked meaning. It comments on how long work is, but also on how lasting spiritual gratification can be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I never completely understand what I’ve written until the ink is dry. I enjoy writing when inspired. Usually inspiration takes the form of a particularly salient concept condensed into a pithy group of words---my grain of sand. In the process of writing, I feel a lot like Wordsworth’s Eolian Harp; I am played by my emotions and subconscious, merely and instrument to effect their translation.

Unfortunately, this style dominates in every type of writing I undertake, resulting sometimes in inflated pieces of chicanery instead of academic prose. When I learned about Poetry.com’s daily poetry contest I undertook to use it as a tool to discipline my writing skills somewhat. I have tried to maintain what I believe to be the most aesthetic feature of my other poetry, imagery, but to distill the essence of the poem into as few words as possible. (The contest requires poems submitted to be twenty “words” or less in length.) In addition, the subject material for each poem is largely dictated by the selection made available each day, although some words appear more often than others . Usually there are about 200 “words” to choose from. In reproducing the poems here I have tried to be faithful to the way in which the poems were submitted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

01 February 2000

friday We heavenists crossed elsewhere
the tingling interference beyond touch
reward

02 February 2000

a cairn birthing silky moss
I laugh
it remotely
threatening to bury Ed

04 February 2000

sunday
my head is
leaking
talked
found
we are
Human

05 February 2000

monday
to think
a laugh so delicious
I will be
alive again for years

06 February 2000

singing
day's dreams
far into the night
Till the cliffs
awaken
laugh at my
onslaught

07 February 2000

we are
bloated
between childhoods

remember
to cut punctures
in the oceans of ourselves

08 February 2000

painted love

I meant to
declare my contempt
For the legions
of spirits so adorned
When
I am

09 February 2000

whispered memories of Wanting
I may be
someone yet

Reject

sitting cross-legged
on the carpet
Thinking soft thoughts
softly feeling
soft
how hard it is
without you here

10 February 2000

breathe>
surely I am
better than
nothing
that *Lie* is old

ex-hale

Reject

~sipping~
coffee like Wine
your smile
traverses
*Light* more like smoke

11 February 2000

certain streams flow biting
through the mind
then desire rosined by will
comes gelid

12 February 2000

if But cathedral
a bed
and altar
of skin
this
soul consumed
tongue of fire

13 February 2000

sea meadow lingers on in Afternoon
rocking creaking
While summer dust sighs
Yawning stretching
to end rippling play

14 February 2000

donquixote Bees
play at challenging
my bouquet windmill

15 February 2000

these fingers hold Aspirations
plaited into sinew
melody woven into muscle

but hesitations found desire
stony

16 February 2000

week-ends with Ash
were nice laughing in love
or picked apart

17 February 2000

Nous Les dans las mains sans trembler
Pour vous parfum vitale De las mains

18 February 2000

summer's warmth dressed trees
are frozen
sunshine's bright Stripping rays

delicious breezes warm in leaving

19 February 2000

To wait
staying awake
patiently sane seems best
I thought to no One In particular

21 February 2000

Her rare symbols of poetry
iridescent and Fragile
as yellow and magenta
sky sculpture

22 February 2000

disturbing gift of
nature embroidered desire
spent on magenta
wings
exquisitely spreading
On the grass

23 February 2000

because next to you
angels dreams are fallen
what missignificance
understand
understand
strength is contagious

24 February 2000

woke to sudden chill
grasped by certain knowledge
of ending

25 February 2000

sitting this near
grace
and not dancing
makes God laugh

embrace wisdom

26 February 2000

heaven waits
patiently Still
lest It interfere
with Your changes of
planets And stars InTo rain

27 February 2000

night shrinks
leaves my soul
pinned
Prometheus Like
fire Consumed
ravens Food

28 February 2000

years pass
and still
your laugh
draws This
heart
To love

29 February 2000

New pages
lie open to my grandchildren
their notes will
pontificate on
mended roses

Cort: Dark Tower Fan-fic

Still trying to rehabilitate some content from my old website. The following is a story from an online RPG that originally lived at OneList.com. It was written in collaboration with Dennis, Jill, Juli, Karen and Tracy in a writer's roulette fashion. The story is based on Stephen King's Dark Tower series and was written sometime in 1998-1999 (not long after the publication of Wizard and Glass) and attempts to fill in some of the plot at the beginning of Roland's story. King actually develops some of that history in Wolves of the Calla, though I've not studied ours next to his to see whether or not the stories could co-exist. All intellectual rights for the Dark Tower story and concept belong to Stephen King, we were just some fans who loved the stories enough to play with them on our own.

~~~~~~

Cort woke with the cold realization that someone was in his room. The last time someone had come unannounced into his quarters was when Roland had come calling for his birthright. Cort kept his eyes closed to slits and maintained a steady even breathing pattern. Ethel, a local nurse and midwife leaned across his field of vision and pressed a cool cloth to his head. Cort’s eyes opened with a start, and Ethel flinched. Cort’s head throbbed mercilessly. Had he been beaten so badly that he had to be looked after by a nurse? Slowly the events leading up to and through Roland’s test came back to him. Roland had bested him with David, his hawk. His friend, Roland had said. The hawk is God’s gunslinger; Cort’s own words came back to haunt him. What a combination of cunning and urgency Roland had employed. Cort didn’t have to wonder what could have transpired to fill Roland with such righteous zeal. Cort remembered being beaten so badly that he didn’t believe he would wake. But, he had, and there was that. He had yet to move on.
“Send for Roland,” Cort rasped, his throat parched by the heavy breathing of a prolonged sleep, “and fetch some water.”
Ethel reached for a waterskin lying on a nearby table. “Your boy has left town. Two days gone he is, so ye jest ease back and get some rest.”
Cort grabbed the bodice of Ethel’s dress and pulled her roughly downward. It was an action that Cort was familiar enough with; it was unsettling though not altogether unpleasant for Ethel.
“Gone? Gone where? What has he done?” Cort realized himself and released her dress. The coarse fabric rasped against his callused hands absently.
Gone. The words echoed in the room. Or was it his head? Cort reached up to his left ear and found it gone, wincing at the needles that remained after he removed his hand. Fear for his pupil’s life beset Cort. What had the boy—the man—Cort corrected himself, done? What had Cort prepared him and licensed him to do?
Ethel stood and straightened her dress. “I’ll send for his father. He asked to speak with you as soon as you were well. You seem well enough,” she said primly and walked out of the bedroom.
When Cort heard his front door pull to, he slid out of bed. It would not do to receive his lord abed, and he was ravenous besides. Cort had barely finished his meal of sausage and cheese when Steven Deschain entered his quarters. The gunslinger, Cort noticed, wasn’t wearing his guns. He was wearing the apprentice belts that Roland would have pulled from the vault, though one of the holsters was empty. The gunslinger pulled a chair up to the table to join Cort.
“Cort, we must parley. You taught my son well, better even than myself, him wearing his birthright at fourteen.” Steven Deschain smile distantly, then made his face a mask of gravity. “Was there nothing you could do to forestall him, at least until my return?”
“Aye, but he would not attend my counsel, Sai. I even gave him a second chance to renege.” Cort hung his head and waited for a rebuke. One he deserved for not abiding by the time-honored traditions of the gunslinger.
The gunslinger merely shook his head and smiled that wry smile again. “Then there was nothing else to be done.” The obvious neglect of Cort’s dereliction of duty was an unspoken reprieve and word of gratitude for the undeserved kindness to his son. “Roland acted impetuously, that is his burden to bear.”
Cort once again felt fear for his pupil. “ He hasn’t gone after Marten, has he?”
A momentary pain crossed Steven Deschain’s face, like a ripple of wind on tall grass. “No, that is solely my worry again. I have sent Roland east, to Mejis. Also, I have sent Cuthbert and Alain, so they won’t be under your care for now. I want you to accelerate the other boys’ training. We will have to fight soon.”
The gunslinger carefully eyed his former teacher; understanding bled across the old man’s features. Cort fell into a manner could only be described as military bearing. Every sinew tensed, and he seemed to grow a foot, even as he sat. The scars on his face and chest made him look craggy, like the rock that he was.

~~~~~~

The sky is gray over Gilead; Cort stands alone in the arena. He has been preparing today's lessons for his band of young apprentices. He must watch them very carefully now for they grow restless as they near the final test. They long to be gunslingers, He shakes his head and grins to himself, they haven’t a clue what it means to be men--to be real gunslingers.
He hears footsteps approaching. Could it be that one of his young squints wants to test early? He would show this empty-headed youth what a real gunslinger was made of. In one fluid movement he releases his gun from his holster, spins to face the little cully, legs apart, gun aimed & cocked. only to find his father Frodo grinning and shaking his head. as he had done himself only moments ago.
Cort grins sheepishly and lowers his sidearm to its holster. It has been too long since he wore the guns, but Steven Deschain wanted these young men ready when the fighting came to Gilead. To be so, they must accelerate their training.
Cort salutes his father with a manly squeeze on his shoulder.
“Son! It's been many years since I laid eyes on you; you have indeed become a great teacher of men. I come with a message from beyond. Cort, one of you're students is in trouble. He is stumbling into a trap, set by powers he can never hope to defeat. It is Roland, son of Steven. You must come to find me; I am near Hambry, close to the Thinny. I need you to bring me over. There are two who will accompany you; they are both young women. Find them and come...time is short.” With that the ghost of Frodo vanished into thin air.
Cort shook his head in disbelief. The vagaries of emotion that coursed through his body made even his corded-steel legs shake. Cort turned as the sound of boys’ laughter echoed in the tunnel leading into the gaming field. Jamie, Allen, and Thomas strode into the shaded light of the archway and stopped short. Smiles of incredulity crossed their faces—and, yes Cort saw it—greed when they saw the gunbelts. Cort put on the mask of the hard-nosed trainer: the man that these future gunslingers would remember with a mixture of love and hate for the rest of their lives. Cort decided he would heed his father’s summons, but only after these boys had become men, or outcasts.
That days training consisted of learning to re-load shells. Cort would break the following fortnight into introducing the boys to the weapons part by part. They learned to break the guns down and clean them. They learned to load the shells in the dark of a cellar in between the seconds Cort shut the door and when he reopened it carrying his ironwood stick. They learned to shoot impeccably. But most of all they learned to cry forgiveness when they had forgotten the face of their fathers and wasted a shot.
Cort too was learning. He spent the evenings with Steven Deschain—keeping the gunslinger informed of the boys progress, and learning of this Thinny of which his father had spoken. Cort’s company was missed in the brothels.

~~~~~~

Roland set his eyes on his homeland, Gilead, for what he sincerely hoped would not be his last time. He wondered what lay on the road ahead of him. He was standing in a wide courtyard with his friend, Cuthbert, and their fathers.
The succession of events these last few days bewildered even him, and though he tried not to think of the event that started them, he couldn't get his mother's image out of his mind. He still could not believe that he had beaten Cort, and that he was a gunslinger, on the same level as the two huge men that stood before him.
Steven Deschain handed his own guns, the ones with the heavy, sandalwood grips, to Roland. These were true gunslinger's guns, not at all like the ones he had trained with. Roland looked at them with wonder, and then hid them in his pack. Cuthbert did the same with his guns. The two boys waited for Roland's father to send them on their way. Both of them were impatient to go.
Roland heard Cort shouting at his newest students even now. He felt a twinge of abandonment when he looked in the direction Cort's voice had come from... Cort had replaced him already. 'But Cort is lying in bed, healing.' He pushed the thought out of his head and tried to pay attention to his father, but after all he was only fourteen, and was eager to start his adventure. He turned back to look at his father...
But instead of his father, Marten stood before him, laughing. A tower of the blackest stone like none ever seen in Gilead was shadowing them both, and they were standing in a field of roses. A wave of despair that he couldn't explain washed over his body...

~~~~~~

Roland awoke with a start. They were three days gone from Gilead, in the camp they had made at the end of the day's travels. He felt movement near his head, and without thinking, he reached for his guns, which were safely hidden away in his pack. He then realized that it was only Cuthbert sleeping restlessly beside him. He thought a bit about the tower he had seen, and then quickly forgot it as he fell into a dreamless sleep.
For the first time (and probably the last time) in a long chain of days, Cuthbert was up before Roland. He was saddling his horse, Glueboy, but his mind was elsewhere. He had had dreams of his own and none were all too pleasant. He dreamed of a silvery lake of mist that consumed all it touched. It spread across the land, reaping what he knew and burying it behind. The sound of this thing seemed to crawl into his forehead and pulse behind his eyes. Even now, in the early light of dawn, when dreams are becoming like so much dust in the wind, it made him shiver. Bert remembered the feeling of the terror calling him, beckoning him to come in. "Everything will be all right here, Bert," IT seemed to say. "We float. In the Thinny, we all Float."
For the first time Cuthbert knew fear. Knew it well. What was the meaning of such a dream? Who could tell? For all he knew it could mean-
He was snapped out of his thoughts by the absence of noise. The heavy breathing of his best friend's sleep was gone. What replaced it was nothing. Roland had been awake for some time and he was in such deep thought he failed to notice. Cuthbert turned to the gaze of his friend's cool shooter's eyes.
"Rough night." More of a statement from Roland than a question.
"Yeah, dreams."
"Anything of importance?"
Cuthbert thought of telling him the dream, but by now it seemed foolish and he decide against it. There is always a time to play the cards close.
"Nah, nothing more than just a little road dust," Cuthbert said. He turned to his horse and rapped him on the forehead,
"Isn't that right, Glueboy? You old stud, you."
"I'll never understand you or your games, will I Bert," asked Roland with a smile that was rare, but not as rare as it would become.
"Nay, but the world has moved on and understanding has become like trying to put 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag," Cuthbert said, imitating the age worn voice of Cort exactly.
"Sounds about right," said Roland, turning east into the sun.
"We'll be breaking camp and movin' on after breakfast."

~~~~~~

As Cort sat in parley with Steven Deschain, it became clear to him why the gunslinger was a born leader. As was often the case, Cort had been invited to take the evening meal at his lord’s table. As he was seated, Cort glanced to the other end of the table where the lady of the house sat tittering at some unheard remark that passed between Marten and herself. Marten noticed Cort’s gaze and quickly acquired a more somber mood. Cort’s gaze passed to Steven, seated at the head of the table beside him. There was a muted agony in the gunslinger’s face, discernible only to a close confidant—which Cort had become.
Time grew short in Gilead. These evening meetings had opened Cort’s eyes to the multitude of plots that whirled through the midnight streets of this once peaceful province. Rumours of the good man’s coming was setting the town afire with gossip. Steven Deschain regularly said he felt things would come to a head soon, and inquired daily on the boys’ progress. Cort thought his apprentices almost ready for their tests. Even now, they were probably sitting at home in front of their kitchen fires, practicing twirling a bullet between their fingers—an exercise in manual dexterity that often had much subtler uses.
After dinner, Steven and Cort retired to the library to speak of less solemn matters, such as the upcoming Fair-Day. The hour’s concerns crept into even that conversation when it Cort made the pessimistic gesture if recalling that there might not be a Fair-Day if events transpired as Steven expected they would. The two comrades sat in silence for only a moment when a guard burst into the room.
“Pardon me, your lordship,” the guard stuttered as he tried to assume the position of attention against the forward momentum of his body, “Your wife’s quarters are empty, and there is evidence of a struggle.”
Cort’s heart raced, pumping blood into fists that had suddenly become hammers eager to swing. Steven remained pensive.
“And Marten’s rooms?” he asked.
The guard looked bewildered. “We cut short our patrol when we found her ladyship’s door splintered open.”
“Go, search Marten’s quarters. Return when you have an answer for me.” Steven dismissed the guard, who thoughtfully pulled the doors closed again.
“Are you not worried my lord?” asked Cort.
“Not at all, my dear friend, not at all. I have been expecting this for some time now. Whether she has gone of her own free will or had to be taken by force, she will start to reap the heartache she has sown.”
A muffled explosion sounded in another part of the castle, and footsteps pounded outside the library. Once again the guard burst into the room, but this time he did not even try to remain formal.
“The bastard’s gone. Waller’s all blown to hell.” The guard slumped to his knees sobbing, blood dripping from his jacket.
Marten had left a trap on his door that had been set off when Waller, the other guard had opened it. The explosion tore off the guard’s arm and melted his face. The ensuing fire that destroyed Marten’s chamber also served as a signal for the militant revolutionaries that lay in wait throughout the town.
Within minutes the streets were filled with townspeople, farmers, and some hired mercenaries chanting and brandishing torches with their homemade weapons. Cort realized that his apprentices would have their trial by fire sooner that anyone could have anticipated. He passed a key to a servant boy with instructions to take it to Jamie, Allan, and Thomas. They were to retrieve their gunbelts from the vault. Their test would be harrowing. Instead of expulsion, these boys faced death at their failure. Cort prayed that they would remember the faces of their fathers.
Cort followed Steven through the corridors to the tower. Gilead had long been an island in a sea of unrest. It seemed highly unlikely that it could survive this onslaught, less likely that any assistance would be forthcoming. As they mounted the stairwell, Cort felt a chill. He could feel Death approaching and leaned heavily on his ironwood staff. As they reached the top, Cort saw the danger. A small thin man in black robes rushed at Steven from a dark enclave. Something glinted in the folds of his sleeve. Without thinking Cort dove at the man, knocking the knife from his hand, and hurling both men from the parapet. Steven Deschain, did not hear the commotion over the din below that held his attention. Neither he, nor anyone who cared saw the jumble of limbs fall to the soggy earth behind the tower. As the pair landed in a sickening crunch, the man’s hood fell back. Cort looked into his eyes and promptly blacked out.

~~~~~~

Cort ‘s eyes opened of their own accord. Surely he had not escaped Death twice in such a short period. The assassin was gone, as was the cesspool that they had fallen into. The air was filled with the singing of birds and everything was too bright, the colours too vivid to be real. Cort stood shakily, he was sore. He wondered if you could feel sore from the fall that killed you. Cort walked from the velvety bed of grass where he woken to the Pathway next to it. It looked to be paved with golden bricks. Up ahead, Cort could see a castle that shone green. Of their own volition, his feet propelled him down the path. On each side the forest stopped short several feet from the path, and a carefully manicured lawn bridged the gap.
Each step seemed an eternity of it’s own. Soon the forest opened up into a clearing, and the path jogged to left of a field covered in roses. In the center of the field stood a figure. As Cort drew nearer, he realized that the figure was Frodo, his father. When Cort stepped onto the grass between the path and the field he realized that he wasn’t putting any pressure on the grass. He couldn’t jump—as though gravity was too strong or there was an invisible ceiling over his head. At any rate he wasn’t disturbing a single blade of grass. Somehow he knew that he could walk through the roses without receiving a single scratch, or if he was scratched it wouldn’t matter. Cort began to move faster toward his father. It wasn’t running because his feet never moved; he realized that they hadn’t even moved while he was being propelled down the path. He sort of willed himself to be there faster, a d he moved faster. Once he realized this, Cort willed himself there already, and he was.
As he reached to embrace his father Cort saw a transformation. He realized he was staring into the same silver eyes that had been his last sight in Gilead, and was seeing the same pointed grin that had scared him witless. The birdsong had degenerated into a high-pitched buzzing screeching sound, the colours had faded, and the roses around him were wilting.
Then IT said, “How do you like floating, you squint?” the thing laughed at his own hidden humour. “We all float here, it’s kind of nice but you kind of miss the exercise, no?”
Cort realized that he still had his staff with him and did the only thing a sane man could do in a situation where he will very likely soon go insane. He beat himself on the head until he slumped down unconscious.

~~~~~~

A young man runs for his life. He is being chased by three other young men down a dark street. The only thing going through Johnny's head is fear. Johnny turns down an even darker street. His would be attackers hot on his heels. Fear has overcome young Johnny. He makes a big mistake and runs down a grassy hill into a small drainage area.
"We got you now bitch!"
Johnny is trapped, for at the bottom of the hill is a sewage drain and a twenty foot wall. He looks into the drain, all his eyes see is black. Johnny runs into the drain and hits what feels like a brick wall.
"Eh what the-"
"Count ten steps back, then stop and lay on the ground. If you go further than ten steps, you will fall thirty feet, and probably break a few bones. I'll take care of our friends."
Johnny does what he is told. He can hear his attackers running down the hill. He sees a large shape step out of the darkness of the sewage pipe.
"Beat it man! We ain't got no beef witchu!"
"That is my home, you have no right to enter."
"Man that kid owes us money, and an ass beatin’."
"There will be no ass beatin’ tonight."
"Well then, if we can't beat his ass, we'll beat yours."
In an instant, The dark man whips out a polished Daito. His movements are fast and precise. The brim of ones hat, another's back pack and one guys whole shirt, fall to the ground. The dark man then brandishes the sword wildly whooping and screaming. The attackers turn and run for the hill, never looking back.
"Hehe, they always fall for the mad Samurai trick!"
Johnny comes out and offers his thanks, and then turns to leave.
"Wait a second, what's your name?"
"Tom Joad"
Johnny takes off in a sprint, as if the name spoken was that of the devil himself. In between laughter.
Joad returns to the aqueduct he calls home, he falls asleep and has a most mysterious dream... Tom laid down to sleep. It was a long day; a rather interesting night. Running from the law all day, hiding in the sewers at night. As sleep fell, Tom prepared for the normal dreams. The dreams of that night, when a dirty cop, cast his net and ensnared Tom. He had no idea Tom was as skilled as he was. Those dreams didn't come. In their place was a dream of a hideous clown. Tom awoke with IT's words in his own head. "We all float down here...and you will too Joad!" Tom sat up to find that he was no longer alone in his sewer. In a flash he pulled out his daito.
"Fear me not, for I bring you a message and a favor."
"Speak to me, and make your point, I don't take to kindly to guests."
"My son is in danger, he needs your help, in turn he will help you, out of the trouble with the law."
"How?"
"There is no time, you must get a gun, and make some silver bullets.”
"I don't use a gun."
"Not for you, for my son, your blade is very noble...it has silver laced in it. I don't know how, ‘tis not my place to."
"Listen, how am I to make silver bullets, Silver doesn't happen to grow on trees, now does it."
"Here, take this"
The strange man holds out a brick-shaped object. After further inspection Tom realizes it is a block of silver.
"Now get going for the beast you have dreamed of has my son. It can not be killed, but it can be driven away. You must help me, my son as well."
"Well, I didn't have any other plans for the weekend, so what the hell, but where is you're son?"
"First get the gun and the bullets, I'll return when you have."
With that the man simply vanished without a trace. Tom slid back to sleep, and dreamt of a nightmare clown once again...

~~~~~~

Joad went running down the dark tunnel. The revolver he stole from a cop the night before, it wasn't easy, but he got it. The bullets he got made with the last of his money. Joad had a feeling that he wouldn't be needing money much longer. Into the tunnel he ran, the moaning and screams were getting louder. Joad didn't know what to expect, he slowed down. Tom Joad stood before a rickety wooden door. On it was marked the word "charlights". Light, poured from every flaw in the door's design. He opened it carefully, inside was quite a sight. There were skeletons everywhere. They all seemed to float about an inch off the ground. Tom himself looked as if he was floating, but in reality he wasn't.
Hundreds of dead people, all floating. Tom could hear something approaching, something large. He ducked behind some fresh skeletons. A huge turtle-spider thing walked in his direction. It stopped right in front of his hiding place. The beast lifted on its hind legs and a beam of white light engulfed the skeletons. After a second the skeletons turned to dust. As they did Tom leapt from them and found a new hiding place, behind some more dead bodies. The beast seemed to notice, it seemed to be relishing in some unseen pleasure. Tom bolted further into this strange room. The more he ran, the fresher the bodies got. Finally the bodies he found seemed to be alive, one in particular stood out. The man was middle-aged, he had no hair, and scars all over his body. A voice spoke inside of Joad’s head, telling him that this was the person he was looking for. The man, was out cold though; Joad didn't know what to do. On a whim he pulled the revolver out and spoke up:
"You're father has sent me, awaken BONDSMAN!" The man’s eyes exploded open, Joad grasped the gun and spoke,
"I thank you, now I have a score to settle with a clown"
"A what?"
"You didn't see the clown? "--Joad then tells Cort of how they got there.
"No matter, what ever it is dies today"
Cort stretched his muscles. It seemed as though he had been tied and suspended, but there was no evidence to support this feeling. He hefted the gun that the stranger had given him. It was high quality steel, but it seemed to have been thrown together, hardly fitting the Gunslinger that had worn it. Cort then examined the bullets, delighting in the shiny brass casings. Joad said the silver had come from Frodo; Cort had no idea how his father would have access to this type of wealth. The gunsmith that had made the bullets gave Joad a bandolier to carry them in. Cort realized that this could hardly be out of the kindness of the man’s heart and figured that some of the silver was missing. He hoped that there was still enough to complete whatever task his father had set them to complete. Lost in his ruminations, Cort snapped to attention as he heard a chitinous scraping heading toward their spot. Joad glanced furtively about, but stayed in position and looked to Cort for instruction.
Cort slipped into killing mode. His years of training had been longer and more arduous than most of his apprentices. Cort, like his father, had completed the test of the Gunslinger and then opted to become a trainer of such men. Now those years of practice flowed back into his well-worn hands and his motions were so fluid as to be almost invisible. Cort now stood at the ready, his bandolier strapped crosswise over his right shoulder and his loaded gun in hand. All of this happened in a matter of seconds. He began to recite the lesson that would guide his mind and hand.
“ ‘I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his had has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my mind.’ “
The beast broke into view from behind hanging corpses, setting them to swing. Joad broke into a panic.
“If you don’t hurry up and shoot, your father is gonna have to forget about you!”
Cort didn’t have to ignore him, he was so far gone in his concentration that nothing could break it.
“ ‘I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.’ “
As though this mantra had freed his hands, Cort raised the gun lightning-quick to his hip and fired off all six rounds. Each gouged a hole in the monster’s armor; light shone through like the sun behind a piece of paper. Cort reloaded just as quickly as he had shot, but as he looked up his vision fixed on the light shining from the underside of IT’s body, which was now raised on the back legs, and he froze. Joad saw the end coming. Averting his eyes and fighting blind, he threw his blade into the hideous light. The world exploded silently in a blaze of intensely cold light.
Joad and Cort awoke to find themselves on a wet field of grass. It was as if awakening from a long nightmare. Joad was the first to speak.
"Damn"
"You can say that again"
"Huh, what the hell was that thing?"
"I believe it was a beast of time"
"A beast of time?"
"Yes, it was once rumored that they guarded the portals of time and space.
This one was particularly hellish."
"I agree, so where the hell are we now?"
"I wot we are in midworld-somewhere, somewhen"
"Midworld huh? glad I didn't have plans."
"You said my father sent you?"
"Yes, at least that’s what he said-oh by the way, the name's Tom Joad."
"I am Cort"
"You fight well, pleased to meet you"
"Like-wise"
The two men walked and talked. Cort was never all that social, but after seeing his whole world turned upside down he knew things would have to change. Besides, he liked this Tom Joad character.
Tom and Cort reached a strange marker on the road. It was almost sundown. It read: "Forest of Char."
"That's odd, the forest doesn't look like it was on fire."
"In my world Char means death."
"Oh lovely"
The weary travelers made camp two miles from the forest.

~~~~~~

The two weary travelers stood at the edge of a forest.
"For a 'forest of death' it sure wasn't that bad."
"I agree, we passed through it with relative ease. There is a sign up ahead."
Cort and Joad walked up to the sign. The sign is wooden and has been badly damaged over the years. Cort pulls out a
knife and begins to chip away at the sign.
"I think I can make it out."
"That's good, I don't understand any of the words, you can read that language?"
"Yes, I believe it says welcome to Derry Mane. Does that make any sense to you?"
"Not at all, before I left my world I was in Philadelphia. I have never once been in Maine."
"So there is a place in your world called Maine?"
"Aye so there is-"
"Then I warn you, this may not be the Maine from your when."
"So what do we do? Do we go through?"
"I don't know.”
Joad and Cort walked into Derry at sunset. Cort suggested that they find some deserted part of town. They found a house that looked intact, and entered. Inside was a mess. Graffiti covered the walls; the place was a waste. A place Detta Walker would have recognized all too well. The men explored the house. In a large room that Joad called a "parlor" the graffiti was more than chaos. It was one word written in a color red that looked too much like blood for Joad's taste.
"What does it mean?"
"I know not."
Written in blood in front of them was the word IT. Joad and Cort stood looking at the graffito in silence. Cort snapped to attention. He turned and drew his gun. Joad stood his mouth gaping open.
"Cort what is it?"
"Someone is coming. Someone or something."
A dark skinned man came to the door. His eyes are wide and he is terrified.
"You are not IT I can feel it-you are not that beast...how are you here alive?"
"We came from another world. At least that is the going theory,” Joad said.
"You must leave here, get out of Derry before IT finds you."
"It?"
"IT, IT's coming."
Cort demanded: "what is this IT?"
"IT is a monster from outer space... we thought we killed IT, a long time ago."
Joad spoke up, "Well what happened?"
"It had babies...it brooded an army of ITs, we fought them, but in the end...the ritual of chuud killed everyone else, the ones the first monster didn't kill. Richie first, then Ben, later Bev and then IT killed Bill. IT is leaving me alive to torment me, because we killed IT's mother."
Cort looked stressed out. Joad hadn't been around him that much, but he could tell, by the way he was holding his gun belt that things were running around in his head.
IT. The sound echoed in Cort’s head and he realized that he was hurting again. Had it really only been two days since he last awoke in Gilead? Instinctively Cort knew what IT was. IT was a Tower beast of some sort. IT had to be, to have leapt from the nexus out to this place. Cort was pretty sure that the Thing that Tom had saved him from was a manifestation of this IT. The really scary question was-what of the Tower if the beam no longer held these creatures in check?
“Tom, we have to do something. IT knows us, and could have been following us all this way. Our best chance is to get ourselves out of here, where ever here is.”
A thought stuck in Cort’s mind. Suddenly it clicked. “Is there a butcher shop around here?” he asked the dark-skinned man.
“Oh, yes there is, but you surely don’t want to go there. That’s way too close to the deadlights. You can’t even hear yourself think once you get near.”
That sounded like a thinny to Cort. “Excellent. We must be off Tom.”
Cort struck off in the direction of that grating, high-pitched whine, pulling wads of cloth from his pockets as he went and stuffing them into his ears. Tom and the dark-skinned man stood gaping at one another until Cort turned around, halfway down the street and beckoned for them to follow. Tom ran after, eager not to be left alone in this still-too-alien world. The dark skinned man, not about to be left alone again if he could help it, trotted along as well.
When Cort reached the silver-grey haze that marked the boundary of the thinny he stopped. Tome and the dark skinned man also had their ears plugged, so Cort communicated through pantomime that they were to stay in contact at all times. Immediately he grabbed a hold of Tom’s hand and led the trio into the haze.
Almost at once a chittering sound overcame the whine and made itself felt in the small hairs on the backs of their necks. The dark skinned man recognized it first and bolted, breaking contact with the two. Cort and Tom struggled to keep up but it was as though time grew thick around their feet and going to fast would result in pitching forward on their faces. Two pair of soft hands grasped the travelers and pulled them up and out of the haze.
It was only after coming back to his senses that Cort realized he had been unconscious again. He recognized the smell of home and the faint first apparitions of stars over the horizon. He looked around the room that he had come to in. Cheeses of all shapes, sizes, and odours hung from every available spot. To one side Cort saw a huge stone cistern that probably held milk and butter in its cool depths. They were in a dairy.
A pair of worried, but happy eyes gave him a once over. “Welcome to Hambry” she said.

~~~~~~

After Alain left Gilead, before all hell had broke loose, he made his way to Hambry, where Roland and Cuthbert had already arrived (although he did not know this). Somehow, along the way, he had been separated from them, after they had broken camp. He knew that they would not leave him, yet they were gone. His sense did not tell him anything that he did not already know. So Alain decided to continue on in the direction of Hambry and hope for the best.
As he rode on, he heard strange voices. Most of the time they just laughed. Until the day that he saw a strange sight. It appeared to be a person, but it was painted, it looked like. He had never seen such a person before. He was dressed in bright colors, and held circles that floated in the air, held by strings. Alain knew that magic existed, but this did not look right to him. He grabbed his gun, and was about to speak, when the person spoke. "Do you like them? I do. They float, don't they? They all do. And when you're with me, you'll float too!!! As the person, (no, IT, Alain quickly decided) lunged at him, he thought he saw strange lights coming from IT ("no, deadlights", a voice inside of him that he did not recognize quickly spoke up) and then all was thankfully black.
When Alain woke once again, he seemed to be fine, as far as he could tell. Except for the fact that he was very weak from his experience. But he noticed a strange, warbling sound that hurt his ears. It soon went away. Alain saw a campfire in the distance, and decided to head in that direction. As he drew nearer, slowly, he heard voices yet again. He almost thought that he would die this time, until he could suddenly hear clearer. It was the voices of his friends, Roland, and Cuthbert. He called out to them as he drew nearer. "Cuthâ?¦ Rolandâ?¦" He then collapsed.

~~~~~~

Lilly tossed her bed roll aside. No sleep would come to her this eve. Not with a moon so full tonight. On nights like this she is always uneasy. It seemed the voices and visions were the strongest around Harvest Moon. She looked over to her companion with a frown; he seemed to be deep asleep.
Lilly got up and stretched her slim cat-like body and pulled a leaf out of her long, blond-brown, tight curly hair. She never did care much about grooming since she was raised by all men but she still had a beauty about her.
"It's time child" the wind whispered in her ears. Lilly looked up at the moon and noted it's evil grin. She remembered faintly a story her father told her about such a Harvest moon. She shook her head and muttered out loud, "Poor Susan." and walked over to her purse.
She fumbled over its contents of powders and natural herbs, trinkets of past adventures and spare bullets, until she came to the worn leather wrapping. She pulled it out and untied the string around it, letting the old deer skin fall to the ground revealing a decaying jawbone. A tingle ran down Lilly's spine as she rubbed her long creamy-brown fingers on it. It was a gift from her uncle. She had been carrying it with her since she was five years old. He had told her it was her mother's and was good luck, possibly one day she would use it to talk with her.
That was almost ten years ago but she still felt the tingle down her spine every time she touched the cold jawbone. Lilly wondered if her mythical mother would speak to her this eve. The wind rustled in the bushes but no voices this time. Lilly shrugged her shoulders and re-wrapped the fragile jawbone and stuffed it back in her purse. Tonight didn't feel like a good night to be talking with ghosts. She again looked over to her long time companion and saw him sitting up this time and looking at her.
"Sorry to waken you Jake. I couldn't sleep. I thought I heard...”
"A voice? I know. You hear them all the time. It's ok, why don't you come and lay back down and rest. We will paveal tomorrow when that wicked moon isn't watching."
Lilly went back to her bedroll and closed her eyes. Jake was like her brother and she knew he would always look over her. She felt safe with him at her side and a light pink sleep overcame her.

~~~~~~

Lilly and Jake traveled for several days in the mountains, trying to stay on the path of the Beam. The Beam seemed to be their master. No matter how hard the going got in it's path they never deviated from it. It was their only hope of finding their destination or destiny and to be reunited with Roland and Eddie. They have been separated for what felt like years. Of course who can measure time and place when you keep crossing the cosmoses every other night. This was nothing new to Lilly; She was born on the road, on the path. She never knew the comforts of one bed for too long, or one world. The only constant in her life was her guns and her gift of second sight.
Night has come again and camp has been set. Jake and Lilly sit and eat a dwindling supply of "gunslinger burritos".
Lilly sits uncomfortably cross-legged, trying to find a good position. There is something nagging at her. She can hear it far in the distance. "Can you hear it Jake?" she asked and takes a big chomp out of her burrito.
Jake cocked his head to one side and closes his eyes. A frown comes to his face as he realizes what she is hearing. "Yep. It's about another day's travel away. It's likely right in the path too."
"It's another thinny, isn't it?" Lilly asked with a whine in her voice." I hate them. And we seem to be encountering them more often now."
"Well, they aren't meant to be pleasant. They aren't natural. But maybe this could be the one that leads us back. Tomorrow we will do double time to reach it." Jake said with a command in his voice.
Lilly makes a pouty face but knows it will do her no good. She finishes her food and looks for earplugs in her pack. She knows from past experiences they will only work for a short time but any relief is welcome.
Sleep comes easy tonight for Lilly and she dreams of her mother singing a lullaby. The light humming of her mother's voice fills her head.
"Humm humm hummm hummm, La La La Ru Ru the babe is sleeping. La La La Ru Ru The Tower Isn't Keeping. La La Ru Ru, La La Ru Ru The Beast Is Creeping. Hummm humm humm hummmmmmmmmmm"
Lilly wakes startled with cold sweat running down her brow. The hum of her mother's lullaby is still in her hears and then she realizes its really the hum of the thinny.

~~~~~~

Cort dreamed of lazy days and less imposing worries. The sound of his apprentices talking softly and the picnic smells of cheese were enough to convince him that he was dozing on a spring afternoon in between training sessions in Gilead. A silver buzzing in the back of his head wouldn’t let Cort completely lose himself in the dream, however, and he woke to the reality of Hambry and the ragged crew assembled against the coming chaos.
It did not occur to Cort that given enough time, even eternity passes, and the collapse of the Tower would eventually be as insignificant as the dust he brushed from his trousers as he stood. For Cort, it was a matter of duty, and he did not question that.
Cort tried to count the number of days that had passed since Gilead had fallen and he had been thrust upon this quest. He found that days and nights could not be numbered and he settled for counting the number of people he was with and realized that Roland was among those he saw.

Hospitality and The Response

I read Judges chapters 19 and 20 tonight as a follow-up to a conversation with a friend and colleague about the conventions of hospitality in the middle east. Reflecting on the passage, I’m struck first by the emphasis at the start of chapter 19 and again at the end of chapter 20 about the lack of a king. Recalling what I can about the way Saul, the first king of Israel came to that position, I think that the intent of the king of Israel is--at least on some level--to provide spiritual leadership. This is reinforced throughout the history that unfolds in the old testament where the kings of Israel are described with respect to how they did or did not uphold and/or establish the worship of God.

Within this story are two other salient storylines, the Levite’s reception in Bethlehem and Gibeah, and the treatment of his concubine. I read in the extended and manipulated hospitality of the concubines father in Bethlehem a curious parallel to Jacob’s experience with Laban when courting Rachel (Genesis 29). The hospitality the Levite received in Bethlehem sets up a foil to the experience he has in Gibeah where just one man offered hospitality, after which the men of the city lay siege to the house (offering a different parallel to the story of the angels with Lot in Sodom - Genesis 19). The man offering hospitality offers up his daughter and the Levite’s concubine in the hope of distracting the men from their purpose of raping the Levite. The scripture does not relate the fate of the man’s daughter, but the Levite’s concubine endures abuse all night and then falls dead at the door of the house the next morning. The Levite collects the body of his concubine and returns to his home, where he cuts her body into twelve pieces and sends one to each of the tribes of Judah as a witness to the incredible breach of hospitality he endured. This sets up the action in chapter twenty; Gibeah--and by extension, all the tribe of Benjamin--is identified as the perpetrators of this evil. The Benjaminites take umbrage and a battle is fought in which the Benjaminites are eventually slaughtered and the other tribes vow against allowing their daughters to marry a Benjaminite. The language of chapter twenty is curious in that it seems to pit the tribes of Judah against God when they take pity on their kin and--without recanting their oath--try to find a way to keep the tribe of Benjamin from disappearing by finding wives for the men of Benjamin elsewhere. The author of Judges, by ending the book with another comment about the lack of spiritual leadership in Israel, seems to be saying that their actions aren’t perfect, they are doing the best they can.

While this conversation started about hospitality, I wanted to tie the issue of spiritual leadership to The Response planned for August in Houston. This event (which from a cynical perspective seems to be a springboard for a Perry presidential bid) is unabashedly addressing itself to the issue of spiritual leadership. I am no stranger to the way that this trope operates in fundamental protestant thinking, having grown up in an Independent Fundamental Baptist Church. Dr. Barber’s favorite verse had to be II Chronicles 7:14; I heard it often enough from the pulpit that I can still recite it by heart (I can also repeat his story about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as loving-kindness, but that is another story). This perspective has its roots in the Puritan experiment of a “city on a hill” and the concept of Manifest Destiny. Its progeny is the prosperity gospel that is so prevalent in our time, which end seems the logical outcome of attaching divine guidance to the pursuit of material wealth.

But, like we see in the Israelites misapprehension of the purpose of a king and the price they paid for demanding Saul (I Samuel 8), I think that comparing the actual gospel to what is being preached by The Response suggests a dark and dangerous path for America. The mission of The Response, as stated on their website, is to “pray for a historic breakthrough for our country and a renewed sense of moral purpose.” The website refers to scripture (Joel 2:12) that they see addressing a parallel moral crisis. The “fasting, weeping and mourning” referenced in Joel echoes the passage in II Chronicles that I remember so well: “If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sins and heal their land.”

In and of itself, this is excellent guidance. We often speak of Scripture as a history of salvation and, not surprisingly, the method that God proclaims for reconciliation does not change in that history. The Commandments of Blessedness (aka the Beatitudes), sometimes referred to as the Gospel in a nutshell, echo the same traits of humility, mourning, hunger for righteousness taught in Old Testament scriptures. But what is the “historic crisis” that The Response hopes to address? They cite economic, social, and moral peril. This is simply the culture wars of the 1980’s rehashed. Frank Schaeffer, a self-described founder of the Religious Right gives some insight to the phenomenon in his memoir Crazy for God:

The leaders of the new religious right were different from the older secular right in another way. They were gleefully betting on American failure. If secular, democratic, diverse, and pluralistic America survived, then wouldn’t that prove that we evangelicals were wrong about God only wanting to bless a "Christian America?" If, for instance, crime went down dramatically in New York City, for any other reason than a reformation and revival, wouldn’t that make the prophets of doom look silly when they said that only Jesus was the answer to our social problems? And likewise, if the economy was booming without anyone repenting, what did that mean?

p. 298-299

Schaeffer goes on to lament about how power- and money-hungry the leadership of the Christian Right became. It is this same impetus that I read in a new attempt to put a varnish of “faith” on neoconservative tendencies such as cultural imperialism, disdain for pluralism, reliance on militarism--both literally and figuratively, and emphasis on individual prosperity.

In describing themselves as an apolitical non-denominational group, The Response’s website helpfully lists seven tenets of faith. The first insists that the Bible (which version? -- the church of my youth is adamant that no one got it right until the Elizabethans) is the “inspired, the only infallible, authoritative Word of God.” In the Eastern Orthodox Christian tradition, the title “Word of God” refers exclusively (to my knowledge) to Christ, the second person of the Trinity. Curiously, the closest analogue I know of to this position of deifying scripture is the Muslim reverence for the Koran. The second tenet, professing belief in an “eternally existent” Trinity is orthodox in its formulation as is the third tenet enumerating Christ’s deity, virgin birth, sinless nature, miracles, crucifixion, resurrection and ascension and expectation of Parousia; they get fancy in inserting a Campbellite emphasis on vicarious atonement, but that is only incorrect if emphasized at the expense of a complete understanding of Christ’s salvific work. Tenets four through seven--expressing positions on the work of the Holy Spirit, universal resurrection, and brotherhood of all believers--are similarly not objectionable from an orthodox christian perspective except perhaps in emphasis. While The Response might not claim affiliation to a particular denomination, their theology is fairly narrowly defined in their emphasis.

Because the public recognizes this event as political in spite of claims to the contrary, persons of all faiths and similar cultural concerns might have interest in attending and having a seat at the table and a voice in decision-making. But the statement of faith is exclusionary; an equivalent of the question asked of the Levite in the Judges chapter 19 “Where do you come from and where are you going?” My issues with this event come down to a question of hospitality. Another “Gospel in a nutshell,” Christ’s new commandment--“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your mind, and all your strength and your neighbor as yourself.” (Matt. 22:40) is an instruction in properly aligning oneself vertically and horizontally. Proper alignment is not fear and an attitude of taking care of myself first. The culture wars, our modern version of the dehumanizing racism that has been a part of our American social genetic for the last four centuries, is simply an apologia for enculturated selfishness. American culture as expressed by the Christian Right is not compatible with the Gospel of Christ.

If we were truly to see a Christian revolution in America, it would entail prayer, repentance and fasting (and these under the guidance of spiritual fathers grounded in these practices as part of the life of the church). The economic prosperity and political freedoms we enjoy would be vehicles for erasing hunger and violence, easing poverty and disease. Radical Islam would have little reason to refer to America as the “Great Satan” because we would not be throwing our power, money and freedom after morally repugnant ends. Unfortunately, if we were truly to see a Christian revolution in America, it would probably be castigated as a socialist movement. (Might I suggest Georgism instead?)

The Idea of Ancestry II

Institutionalization can be debilitating.
I have friends who can’t leave because
they have grown so accustomed to the system.
Some, like Frank, I can still visit
because he remembers me inside.
My children call him uncle
because the myth of brotherhood
is hard to let die when it is the only thing.

Just six months out of the home
and in jail, Frank laughs and reminds me
that it is the other way around. That
he couldn’t wait to get out but out
was too big and in was more like home.
He asks me to bring pictures of the kids,
the ones we took on the 4th,
sweating on the lawn in shorts and grins
weary from play, wanting to know when cool
dark independence would come.
It is a good thing that I strove to succeed
Whose picture would keep my cell company otherwise?

I hear on the news today about eugenics
and I refrain from thinking about it until
it assaults me in print and on my desktop.
How many thousands of women forced to
forego progeny: I think of auctions and boys
clinging tearfully to mama’s skirts,
her wailing and gnashing, pleading mercy
Lord, have mercy;
and someone else’s definition of mercy
that saved her thus from a pagan life.

I call the home and ask for records
offered and refused before.
I can no longer believe my fantasy of bootstraps.
I want my mama, I want a brother,
I want roots.
Two weeks later a manila envelope
brings clinically detached news;
the words run ashamedly from my eyes,
down my cheeks.

My wife, Kendall reads:
Name: Samuel Jacobs
Mother: Harriet
Father: Samuel Ward
Date of Birth: 6 June 1968
Notes: Mother admitted to hospital in Winston-Salem complaining of severe
headache and dyspepsia, approx. 8 ½ mo. pregnant. Not married to father, father
serving overseas. Attempted termination of pregnancy, but mother entered stressed-induced labor and delivered. Cause of headaches, etc. appears to be malnutrition, as the mother is emaciated, though all internal organs seem perfectly healthy. Performed full hysterectomy to fix the problem. Child remanded over to the care of the N. C. Home for Boys…
M.S.

Twin springs of my hope and tears
cauterized in my mother’s belly.

Twin springs of my hopes and fear
cauterized in my mother’s womb.

Spring 2005