God's Green Fingers

Would it be so wrong to think of God,
again, in physical terms,
like of old?

Today, a little girl
with still new steps pranced with a
confident unassured gait back and forth

between a concrete sidewalk and
grass. And though those hired to
try to tame Earth’s green growth

to appropriate a contrived commercial
scape had obviously recently been there,
the freedom in the child drew her

to God’s small, manicured, fingers,
even as her cultured mother tried to keep her
on a fabricated foundation.

But God’s hands were still reaching,
even if they would leave a reminding
itch upon her knees should she have

fallen, even though the green grass
drew the girl into the sun, its burning
light, threatening to blemish,

as her worried mother feared, her
smooth, pale skin, plump cheeks,
with the heat of red life.

Comfort, Comfort

Comfort, comfort
My people
I have killed your fathers
I have sullied your daughters
Only because I love
My people

Comfort, comfort
The nations
To you who are thirsty
To you who hunger now
The meek shall inherit
My patience

Comfort, comfort
My son
You who are lost inside
You who believe just to survive
I will raise the dead when
I’m done

offering comfort.

What There Is

There is a young lady learning
There is a woman pining
There is a man reaching
There is a fetus squirming
There is an old man dying
To remember

There is a desert waiting
There is an economy crashing
There is a barrio hurting
There is an ocean sinking
There is a flower blooming
In December

On the Occasion of Albatross

a bird with a belly full of plastic;

such a small price to pay

for the refreshing taste of battery acid.

but we do have domain over

lesser life forms, don't we?

and global warming and going green were

made up by the devil.

by the devil.

we must never fall prey to the gospel of green,

though we're perfectly complacent

to follow another gospel of green.

make no mistake,

make no mistake.

there is a price on everything;

economic evolution,

survival of the richest.

yeah, that'll preach.

it's such a shame

that you can't afford

a place to sleep (come all ye weary)

and food to eat (we'll break bread)

or medicine.

...but hey, I don't want to wait in line

so here is a dollar

go buy a bottle,

such a small price to pay

for a bird with a belly full of plastic.

Measure

Words are good for nothing
unless they too can be spoken
with hands. Hands are good

when they touch with
mindfulness and concern,
responsibility. A loaf of bread

with too much water is
likely to not rise as much as
one hoped it would. So too

words unmeasured are flat
and depreciating, mere empty
phrasings to pass some time

on the way to dispassionate
gain. And if I do not seek to
reach out after this consideration,

again another has said nothing
with as many words.

m words

the misoneism

of the machine

is masquerading

as a malediction

of the maleficent,

little do they know

i have loose morals.

Such Divergent Ways

The snow had freshly fallen,

making sidestreets look that way.

Remembrance of a softer time,

of love and joyous day.

We walked along that rocky path

still hoping for some meaning,

a light to pierce our sullen eyes

which could not bear the bleeding.

Then brilliantly that painted sky

with philosophies so cunning,

sang melodies of passersby

with coats, a look so stunning.

But theory pushed and time blew harder,

so we waved farewell on golden water.

That light that blinded eager eyes

was nowhere found in those gray skies.

So we cast our lots and parted ways

in separate ships, on separate days.

And as we passed I glimpsed that dream

of fallen snow and wayward schemes.

When thrice the summer sun had died,

and finally our two ships arrived,

our weary eyes met on that day,

but as we passed we looked away.

For we both knew the reason why;

you had changed, and so had I.

And as we know there is no place

for two with such divergent ways.

O come sweet love

and haste that day

when long lost friends

come home to stay.