Another Poem To Be Published
Another one that was a stretch for me to write and have been slaving over for . . . oh, 5-6 years.
Niceness.
Can’t post here until after it is published however. Copyright issues and all that.
Novel Romance - Magnetic Poetry 7/18/08
Click picture for larger image.
“novel romance”
you ask for some vivid voice
another open truth. loud
laughing, empty of language.
an epic, strange but easy to tell
short, with more device than plot.
i long to escape from here, skim
this sad, haunting fiction and begin
a new mystery; whisper an ancient desire
speak in full spirit our every
beautiful drama. fill pages
my soul can judge, paragraphs
between you and me.
come. discover the story, the only tome
that curls like an old spine beneath
a volume of fear. write each word
then sentence – mark how they turn,
wander, though grow by chapter.
~ MEH
First typed draft always subject to serious change.
Why I Hate Being A Christian
This is my rant.
It is in poem form, it is not done yet, but it is true. 100% accurate. I couldn’t make this shit up. I’ve even cut out some of the insanity.
I will finish this one day, polished and hopefully published, but this is where it stands after a few days of weeding out the editorializing and commentary on the part of the speaker (me). This is as close as I can get right now to just stark, non-didactic observation.
The setting: a Reformed church in Wisconsin. White. Trying to be ‘progressive.’ Okay, I’m done.
Enjoy and cringe.
——————————————————————————————
“oh say, can you see ”
trapped in McCain country on a Sunday morning
the 6th of July. it’s an election year in the Midwest
and the rest of the country i suppose, though here
fireworks blaze for an extra week, like the cross on the lawn
of this church, when decorated for Christmas.
the reverend is traditionally, though ironically, robed
in black. the seasonal green sash around his shoulders
brings out the color of eyes, which close in prayer
as hands raise before god, over the congregation. he begins
with pride in the brave pioneers, mindful of their duty,
their manifest destiny to purify this promised land
like the children of Israel in Canaan, allowing us
to follow their footsteps onto this savage shore –
my eyes snap open in remembrance of some who came
in shackles, and those who left souls buried beneath
railroads and on tearful trails. i tuned back in on barbwire
swastikas and something about child molesters. he praises
the precious freedoms which stand against radical Islam,
baked bread and diesel fumes – the scents of home –
which triggers thoughts of Margaret awaiting word
on chemotherapy, and the silence of the drums this week
from Jeffery’s absence –the terrible spill which left his children
wondering when they will be able to play with their father.
after the amen i try to concentrate on the sermon,
but become lost in the mountains of Jerusalem
and their significance to our national & economic security,
how the Psalm relates to sheiks in sand or the almighty
dollar replaced by the euro. and then the axis of evil –
abortions, poverty and rap music – the balm for boys
who play games, young black men who only dream
of being musicians and athletes. the sincerity brought tears
to his eyes. he closed with a call for us to take stock of the symbols
of his faith: a body whipped and hung on a tree; an empty tomb;
the white wash of baptism; sitting inside the master’s house,
welcomed to wine at His table. and of course bread. with solemn nods
we were ushered forward for the Eucharist . i almost ran out
of room to take note.
~ MEH
I was trying to find a picture of the guy, but I can’t find the name of the church. . . . blast!
Musikal Scetches . . .
(Yes, I know. I teach Engrish . . .)
I’d offer you my hand, but you probably wouldn’t take it,
But why shake on a vow, when I’m sure you will break it . . .
Take two and call me in the morning. (or)
Take two and we’ll call it in the morning (or)
Take two and call it in the mourning (or)
Take two and I’ll call it in the mourning.
Let’s see where this song goes.
Beep . . .beeeep…. Beep
********
in our day He would spread SIM-cards instead
of seeds, check for our reception of voice
and text; speak of the calls dropped by the road-
side, or bounced beneath cement tunnels: blocked
signals which descend like pigeons. He’d warn
of satellites which snatch words from our mouths,
yet chide those who live in fear, with their phones
suspiciously off; and the forgetful
who can never seem to nightly plug in
to recharge and refresh. He would finish
with a parable: an end to roaming
charges and our minutes rolling over.
unblinking He’d ask, “can you hear Me now?”
and pray He would receive more than static.
~ MEH