Friday, July 07, 2006

And again of rain...

“I just want to hold you” --in the rain
, he spoke,
answering the hunger in her breast
for a tangible comfort.
She might have wept,
Was her ache a wound--
or emptiness, expectant to be filled?
a wound, and emptiness, for comfort
soothes and scathes.
She might have wept.

Tell her it will be for life.
Tell her life will be long.
Tell her she won’t die
, and you won’t die,
Tell her she’ll see you again,
feel you again, someday
Tell her it is not
to be touched by love.
Tell her she will be made right.

She might
--she might--

“I just want to hold you...”
--she might have wept--
“...for a while.”
Tell her it will be for life.

Of rain...

I care, I trust, I learn
To take a part, to act the play.
I dare, I must, I burn
To make a portrait of that day.

An oil leak on tainted ice
No purity to smear
Repeated once, repeated twice
In water and in tear
The sky is falling
And nothing cleansed
A life is draining
And no one gains
As tears, that, streaming,
Relieve no pains

Forgotten in a vale become
A landfill of my days
Is promised rest, is promised home
Is crucifixion grace
A hope is falling
O Savior save
A life is dying
Into a grave
And I am coming
To be Thy slave

My mouth is open as a tomb
I weep against the wall
Within the silence of my room
I wrestle with my fall
My breath is failing
I cannot speak
My heart is longing
My body weak
My mind splintering
And I will break

Go on. It’s finished. Chosen course.
Exist as you see fit.
Moveless--I’m moveless, cannot force
Nor stir my heart to it.
My arms are sweeping
The dust in piles
Mindless measuring
My life in miles
Of mindless pacing
The bleach-washed tiles.

I’m spared--a storm, a brink
To break the cylinder of pain
I wear, I store, I drink,
I paint a plethora of rain.

By Wisdom Saved

Not silent. Silent, but heavy still
With weight of import and weight of will
And weight of sorrow and weight of care
And weight of nothing and of despair
And broken, broken, and now enough
Give me but courage and I shall love
So bleeds the fear through incision--slow,
Then leaves the heart in an overflow
Of grief that must find a language soon
Else it is buried alive, unknown
A worm corrupting, embittering
A blind farewell to a lovely thing
...Rain traces patterns in winding lanes
On hopeless faces and window panes
Pain traces patterns behind locked doors
Where music spins in her ears and pours
Finality, and a prayer is gone--
The tears walled in, and the mask put on...
A language, fingers and characters
A thought is his and a thought is hers
His, customary, to take the floor
Hers now to speak what she hid before
Trust. Should this step give beneath her feet
It is no less grave, but a grave more sweet.
Now finished, finished-- a peace revives
As scattered fragments of separate lives
Fall in together, a bridge between
A startled faith in the unforeseen
Bound and unblinded, or blind enslaved--
By pleasure threatened, by wisdom saved.

Monday, May 01, 2006


I've been away. I almost see no purpose in coming back today. I'm still not here. I go away every day, to a place separate from everyone, where I view them through a veil. They don't touch me. Half asleep, I watch them falling...I look down and wonder why I don't feel my broken legs. If my blood is no longer pulsing, how can I call myself alive? My anger is my guilt...impotent and infinite. I think I have the power and the right to condemn myself, give myself justice. I think I am unhappy because I am not the "better person" that I ought to be. I think I must rid myself of my selfishness to rid myself of guilt. I must do well and love others. I must strive for excellence in all things. When did I give up that quest? and again defeated. defeated, defeated, defeated. weakness is my birthright.

but I have no rights. and a desire to be better is insufficient and motivated by pride.
When shall I be moved by love?


my God,
i have sought
i have naught

i asked You to kill me
i want You to love me

i want everything
i am nothing

my birthright is death

what have You given me but grace?
I despise it and ask for Your justice.
Be not gentle with me, i say
and know not what i say
the Lord is too gentle with me
i will punish myself.

i teach myself nothing
i attempt nothing
i accomplish nothing
i am nothing.

the noun of my soul is a motive.
the motive of my soul is not love,
but greed.
not love,
but pride.
not love,
but discontent.

why is nothing so heavy? i cannot move it.


i drink the cup of emptiness
for want of love of you
your words fall worthless through my heart
my false is ringing true

should I have been anathema
forsaken and displayed
i shiver in the holy place
worm-eaten and decayed

and taken by my impotence
i curse my birth and die
i love i hate i love i hate
my soul, eternity

a step, a brief discovery
and more to know of what
i cannot be and will not do
i have not love, am not.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006


I don't know what else to say. I've lost all my words, all my thoughts, all my feelings. There's nothing left but motives, and nothing good in those. Please. I am wrong. I am sorry. I am dead.

why am i still hoping?

("Look, I am about to die; so what is this birthright to me?")

O God! This nightmare! Collapse of all restraining and sustaining
Forces and bounds. All that was clear and solid, whether malign
Or comforting, has been reduced to a mercurous consistency--
Charcoal-grey and impossible to separate or see through.
I am dead among the living, mute among the speaking, foolish
Among the understanding. How--when did I ever imagine
That I knew You, my God, that I loved You? Do You see me, broken
And floundering-- she who lives, o God, she who lives, o my God!
She who lives for herself is dead while she lives. And now I know this,
That I killed not only self, that every moment the knife was dug
And twisted in my breast, it meant a little death for them as well.
There it is, still there. Do You see it, o God, that it remains
And the blood is ever falling, staining, poisoning, corrupting?
I cannot remove it. I can foresee that its removal
Will bring me bitter pain and better cleansing. I could suffocate
On my obstinacy. How is it that this should grow stronger
As I weaken, and greater as I lessen? O God, let me die
In truth, and face Your judgment--why attempt to forestall that which
Is foreordained? Deliver me in Your mercy, or cut me down
In Your justice, but do not leave me to exact misery
And trouble on myself. O God my God my God! Have You or not
Forsaken me? This nightmare, this collapse--I cannot arise
Or awaken. Is it too late to be uncovered and undone?

please. ("Have you only one blessing, my father? Bless me--me also, O my father!")

Tuesday, January 17, 2006


Curse it. CURSE IT! So much lost. So much missed. So much still unacknowledged. So much pain. So much--too much. So many ignored. So many assumptions. So many inhibitions. And now...I want to know. I don't want to be afraid to care. It's too late to be uncaring. I want to be of use, of help. I have long wanted to, have long feared answers, have long feared rejection or indifference. I fear above all things my own indifference. Many things I regret.
I'll be all right someday. I just need to wake up and find the door of this tomb.

Who are you? I want to know.

I only know partially myself, and I don't seem important enough that I should bother to help you understand me.

Who I am doesn't matter. It's you I should want to know.

Why are we all so frightened? It can only get better only if we're willing to risk it. Yet to cast aside doubt and distrust and truly be honest with each other is a difficult undertaking. So easy it is for someone to pass judgment rather than to show compassion. To be trusted one must bear evidence of an open and gentle heart. One must say, in words or action or attitude or all above, I will listen. I will be here. I will care. I will love.

That takes courage, more than I have. So help me God.

I only want to be useful before I die.

Monday, January 09, 2006

"...the deepest self is way down, and the conscious self is an obstinate monkey."

--DH Lawrence


Recall it. It has slipped into the mere
Of memory, lost in the multitude
Of memories, as eyes open upon
The bare morning
And dreams forgot.

I never thought,
Dwelling in the myth of my survival,
That I could countenance the merest hope,
That it was requisite, that it was right
To love you or
By you be loved.

No stone unmoved.
I moved, a revolution. In its wake
Hesitancy, and grief unfathomed, fear,
Guilt--an armory against compassion.
Hungry despair
Sharpens its teeth.

Foulest of breath--
The naked bones of the present provide
Greedy incentive; the tireless demon
Swallows the future. Darkness closes in,
Shutting out all
But a vacuum.

There is no room
For thought, or breath, or anything but prayer
An open mouth, a tomb, testimony
To poverty, destitution, dearth. Groans
Only suffice
For want of blood.

The ear of God
Is metaphor; the ear of God, a Man
Of sorrows, was physical; into which,
Perhaps, trickled the embalming perfume
And the love-grief
Of whores and thieves.

Whom He receives
He scourges. This I did not understand,
Believed I was condemned. I felt nothing,
No punishment save my insanity,
And ponderous.

Not virtuous.
No love for God, no fruit from Heaven born,
No bending to surrender all my will,
No will to beg for grace or seek to find--
I threw myself
Against His door.

A metaphor.
The ear of God, our High Priest, exalted
Right Hand of God, acquainted with our grief;
Our Savior, God, Intercessor and Lover--
Not metaphor
But verity.

I think I see.
From silence, purgatory pain will burn
The remnants of a heart, or compression
Will force the shards together, forcing blood
And infection
From faulty seams.

My silent screams
Heard by the ear of God, and met with grace
To speak, an altogether unforeseen,
Undeserved mercy-- as I will, I love.
A transaction.

This love, which drives me near to God and man,
which drives beyond fear/doubt/pride/shame/despair--
This love, most potent of all miracles,
Is not a farce.