it all makes perfect sense at least as much as reeking pots of boiling elf skin do or as much as creeping mango flavored diaper rash does or as much as verifiable ecstasy stinking with the fetid iridescent sweat of nuclear waste does it all makes perfect scents…
Category: Poetry
When I Consider How My Light Is Spent
John Milton was a Christian and poet in the 1600’s. By age 44, he went blind. Milton wondered if he could continue serving God without eyesight. Sometimes, he simply felt useless. Milton’s anxiety and grief spill out in his 19th sonnet: “When I consider how my light is spent.” The sonnet ends with the Lord’s…
Waiting for Snow
Photo by Carrie McKamey “WHAT A GYP!!” With raised fist and gnarled face I accuse the skies. I have been waiting for snow, wishing for snow, praying, hoping, and fishing for snow. I have been daring snow, oh where-ing snow, and (for reverse psychology’s sake) not-give-a-care-ing snow. All this and not one single flake. But…
Incense
Crushed and broken Pulverized Laid on the altar Set on fire There’s nothing left but smoke to rise Everything consumed but fragrance and light Not I Christ
21st Century Faux
This is the 21st century. The colors have bled. There is no moral to our story. The myths are just that, and we have murdered the gods. But what of it? Everything is ours now. We created it. We, the bastard lords of the real world. And I just want to get what I can…
Poly-meism
How does a grain of sand outweigh a desert? How does a drop of water flood the world? How does a voice shout down a nation? How does each of us create their own heavens and earth, subject to personal fiat? How can we breathe? How can we be free? How can we live in…
Headwaters
Better to sit at the waters’ birth, Than a sea of waves to win; To live in the love that floweth forth, Than the love that cometh in. Be thy heart a well of love, my child, Flowing, and free, and sure; For a cistern of love, though undefiled, Keeps not the spirit pure from Phantastes…
Dancing Without Feet
Many waters, without beginning or end. Without surface. It was only depth. It was only inside, not outside. It was not form, only flow. And it danced without feet, an irradiating urge, worshiping ecstatically in the silent music of self-knowledge. It was alone. But it was not alone. There was itself and Itself and ITSELF,…
This Cross
This cross, this cross I know so well, each wood-grain scar, each bloody dell; each splinter broken from this tree, which once in him, is now in me; each splinter growing like a knife that plunges deep with worship’s life; a sacrifice my life to be, for Him, for Him who died for me.
