Passion

I watched you die
On a silver screen
I watched you fall way
Only to return in Act III

With IV and V to come,
You defy conventional resolution -

Stoned. Bruised. Whipped. Stabbed. Beaten.

There you made your stand.
In the blinded face of your father,
You shed your blood upon the land
That our sin be forgiven -

One conglomerate Evil -
Preyed upon by Hollywood,
An evil instituted by men,

An evil forgotten by a carpenter -
Who has laid a foundation
That no man may put asunder…

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I wrote this in response to a previous poem I had written that was lost to a computer virus. I saw the "Passion of the Christ", and walked away stunned. I loved, and hated the movie. Loved it for the true love it portrayed, and hated it for the man it betrayed. I played on a few words here, see if you catch them...

B

Hephaestus

Finding myself in between
The drunken composition
And sober explanation
Of the self I seek to find -

Spread out before the vastly, small expanse
Of the central Alabama Piedmont foothills
There was a tribute to Hephaestus -
The god of iron that cooled the city’s core

I was lost here once.
As a child, I stood at the foot of a statue
Looking for someone of authority;
To belay my bereavement…

They found me,
Here I am and there I was.
Lost on a small mountaintop,
In a place called Birmingham…

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I wrote these poems awhile ago, in a state of war that greatly contributed to my tendencies of creation. When I was a kid, I remember my parents taking me to the Vulcan statue in Birmingham, Alabama. It overlooked the city, and that day was the first time I had seen life from such and incredible vantage point. I don't remember all that I felt that day so long ago, but I remember feeling awe-inspired at the massive monument, and the sprawling land before me.

My parents lost me that day in the crowd. And, when we seek to find ourselves at a much more mature age - we reflect upon the times we were lost before.

Looking down to relate...

How you looked like the floor
When I wanted to tell you the way I felt -
I couldn’t see you leaving me this way
I always thought you would find something more
In something less --
That’s a lot to hope for in a world
Where I’m always second best…

I exchange these hours for days
Freedom in a moment
Only to lose my solidarity in tomorrow
By being your slave each and every day
But I, I stay awake
In the hope that tomorrow will find me free
Longing for no one, contented in ‘me’…


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I don't even remember what moment this was written in response to... I wrote it long ago, to someone I believed forgot me --- I was right.

One more...

One more before the lights go down
One more laugh at what I can never have
One more smile at what was and should never be
One more glimpse into the future
One more forgotten moment of the past
Tomorrow will be different
If today wills it

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At the end of an evening, we are left questioning what we find fulfilling. Some open the door to their wives or husbands, children and other sources of warmth and comfort. Some of us open doors to the deepest loneliness, and are left asking for just one more...

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Poetry for the weary and broken hearted...

In media res

A term used in literature to denote a writing style with a beginning in the middle, a return to the beginning for some explanation, and a final note of closure. I love it, and wrote this poem in response...


IN MEDIA RES

To begin in the middle
So that I might rewrite the end
I have forgotten the beginning
Erased it in this message I’m trying to send
To anybody
And everyone
That might have a care for someone
A little like myself
Lost in the beating
Of the heart I share with someone else…

Home

“Nature comes home to one most when he is at home; the stranger and traveler finds her a stranger and traveler also. “
- John Burroughs

I am beginning to find that home is a state of mind - a place I have always sought, and sometimes found. Yet, I fear it will always remain one step ahead of me… a level of comfort unattainable. It’s not a place, but rather an amalgam of sound and sense, of feeling and love. I feel it most when my father is on the drums, and I’m on my guitar - or when the smoke wanders over the trees and I rest my head beneath a canopy of pines, freezing - but warm inside. I feel it when the nitric fumes of gunpowder fill my nostrils and I look out at a blazing field as it absorbs the final rays of the sunset. When I shoulder my fishing pole, following the rocky bank home in the cool moonlight… then, I am truly home again.

My recent adventures have led me to lose myself, and find myself all over again… to have lost the warm embrace of my heavenly father, only to fall into those loving arms again… I wandered awhile down a rocky path, but now I’m on a new road - and I know this will be the road that takes me to home… and that’s right where I need to be… I often feared the condemning glances of friends and loved ones, but I have come to realize that those countenances were counterfeit, and half the battles a man must fight in this life are in his head - prayer is the only shelter against falsehood and deceit.

Homeless

Nashville has a way
Of rendering life stolen
Lost dogs and ex-wives chase the starving minstrels down on Broadway Street-

Los Angeles has a way
Of calling home the destitute
And reminding them of all they will never be
Rolling down on Rodeo Drive

And Salt Lake has a way
Of waking up the lost
And calling them to reinvent themselves out on West Temple Street -
To redefine a moment, and a religion built on defiance…

I saw a man sleeping in Hardee’s there
I wanted to ask what brought him here
And what stole away his dignity
What made him bow down, and forget he had knees…

A broken cross lay down,
Fallen between two golden arches
The fat of the land ran down
The streets and alleys
Caressing the savior of the streets
With the stench of the McWhatever… (ambiguous)