rededication

Grandmother,

How I've missed

the simple talks we'd have

About the meaning of words

And the glistening of fire

you told me once, but

I forgot, forgive me.

Grandfather,

How I've missed

watching your strong arms,

Hands grasping about tools,

and the making of the fire

you taught me once,

but I forgot, forgive me.

I shared a kiss,

of fire, not of passion.

Fire meant for the head,

and spread it did, around and throughout,

across a summer, bright and fertile,

But I forgot, forgive me.

I hold myself responsible

for words my grandmother entrusted me,

for deeds my grandfather tutored me,

for promises devised from a kiss

on lips which since have flown.

They were forsaken.

They were forsaken.

And my suffering has multiplied,

But in it I have REMEMBERED

The Protector of the Truth. I remember,

I remember and rededicate myself

to that lofty cause.

My heart, my light, my mind.

I have returned grandmother, grandfather,
as your champion.

wayside pulpit

Mind astray reading the

words on a wayside pulpit-

so awkward a prophet-

bumbling knowledge-

the acidity of a stunted worldview.

Are you simple as this?

So explainable by twists of phrase 

and pithy wagging tongues

of a bored and boring populace?

Or do you exist in more than an

ever-changing, plastic-lettered,

scared domicile of homicidal 

banalities; meant to be smart?

Might you reside in the

memory of a deceased relative

who died in pain but lived in promise?

Do you dwell a lady’s kiss

at Summer’s first light, balefires lit,

anticipating your rise?

Have you been heard in silent want

upon cold gray steps, with brothers' 

saffron robes dragging the freezing floor?

Or can you be found in

a painted representation of a savior 

dangling, bleeding, rescinding all sin?

Do you feel anger when forced

in containers or bound in

dead leather as the pages of a book?

Can you smell the petals of

an opening rose; waft along the breeze;

yourself the perfume of floral fascination?

How does it feel to be an enigma-

an unknown quantity

straddling an absolute world?

Have I seen you in my daughter’s smile;

my son’s face in the morning

when I am home and it’s Saturday

and what's past is left in proper place?

I care not how you were conceived;

how to ratify your existence; define your mystery.

I seek only your presence, not to fall by the wayside-

no pulpits, nor altars, nor prayers, nor kneeling.

* * *

Since I took such a long break between posts, I thought I'd try to write something new. That didn't work out, so I went back to a past piece & edited the hell out of it (or maybe into it, depends on your worldview.) One of my pet peeves are those little blurbs that appear alongside the road on church marquees- wayside pulpits- that are supposed to be witty. To me they epitomize the general dumbing-down of religion in this country.