The Retelling

My limbs have come unstitched from my desires,

And I cannot wait

For hope of discipline or restraint.

They are but mere shadows of the utopian,

And I cannot grasp

Them as they hide in watchful disguise.

I will not fear imperfections.

My history and future are made up of failures;

Each am I equally bound to.

They hold over me the reality of flawed existence

And I cannot break free of their hold

In this life or the next.

They are me and I give thanks for it.

If death were an end, rather than a beginning

And life were the whole essence of being

I would give a great sigh and welcome the peace

That forthwith would come as my frustrations ceased

Because if things exist as it is thought they might be

I cringe at the thought of divided eternity

What joy can I have when this wretched savior

Extended me life—unwarranted favor

No, I cannot accept the grace I’ve been giv’n

When contemplating the pain to which some are condemned

No matter what evil is found in their treachery

No matter what ignorance, no matter what lechery

I do not see justice in what we accept

That a creator created us innately inept

And that despite our imperfections we still can be held

To a standard eternal—fear of impending hell

For if less do indeed pass through the heavenly gate

Better not to have lived than to suffer that fate

desperate men go down like feathers
falling fast, barely fluttering
sample starry moonlit dusklight
faking peace amidst a suffering

desperate women in foggy weather
fading fast, eyes are watering
blink back tears of separation
weaning babes into a brightening

When moving makes me feel
Detached with
Nonesuch stillness there
On breezeless days I feel
Me moving in the air
Time to shut
The times back into their cupboards

On mornings when midday
Comes strong with
Warmth of mothers’ care
Winds blowing time in step
I’m moving with the air
Time to let
Past times tear apart their fetters
Tell present times that they’ve been bettered

Bring the peace which comes at morning’s light
Upon my mind, upon my night
I have known my dreams too well

Every morning we wake up at least an hour before we otherwise would have, filing quietly and nonchalantly to our seats. It’s a control that you get used to, if only for the monotony of it. It’s rhythm: after a while you get used to it, and after even longer you’re still used to it – even if you don’t want to be. So when the man at the podium says, “Be seated,” we sit; when he says, “stand,” we stand; and when he says, “… dismissed,” we’re up before the words are off his tongue. We’ll stand up and file out the doors, most of us unchanged.

Today, I’m seated in chapel as I pull out my book, intent upon getting something productive out of the thirty to forty-five minutes I’m forced to give in order to keep my attendance. Most of the noise, I’m used to. I can read with little interruption. I tune out fairly well.

“I want you to close your eyes and focus on the cross as we sing these songs”

A few bold, but mostly feeble voices are raised in a mixture of worthy but mostly pathetic praise. One of the bold and worthy sits within the shot of my ears. I hear her daily, as true and constant as any other in existence. Her voice is loud. I said her voice was within the shot of my ears but I didn’t say that she sits close to me because she doesn’t. She keeps the tune but sags the pitch. Every word is enunciated clearly. Her tone is saturated with breathiness and a disagreeable nasal quality. The honesty of her voice, the care that she takes with every word and the sincerity of a soul offering a gift to God, all come together to make her song extraordinary. She is one. Around are many who don’t; they just don’t and we just don’t. Whether it is because their hearts despise praise or that they have been made indifferent by the monotony of which I spoke earlier — I cannot speak for them. I have already spoken for myself with the latter. Because of this, I am reading.

“There were no names, however, and no numbers. His shoulders drawn-up, tears of cold in his eyes”

It was hard to do at first, reading that is, and is sometimes difficult still, but not as. Every now and then, mid-sentence, I’ll hear the words of the man at the podium. The page and what is spoken knit themselves together into an unintelligible weave. I am then forced to re-read but never re-listen.

“When I survey the wondrous cross on which the prince of glory died”

I look up and hum along, slowly transitioning to words. I enjoy this hymn. I appreciate a well-written hymn and this is one of them. I know the words; they are quite familiar. They slide from mind to mouth with ease. I hear myself and hear the other, bold and worthy. It is over. I look down and re-read a bit and read a bit more.

“And though the self ridicule was slow to diminish, and his face still blazed with it, he had, nevertheless, a feeling of elation, too. ‘For after all,’ he said, ‘he could be found!’”

I’m finished and I close my book and put it away. I sing the rest of the songs with mild interest. The man at the podium fails, pauses, and picks up again. He does his job because he wanted it.

“Our greatest fear is that we will forget your sacrifice. Everyone in this room prays for your mercy”

We’re dismissed. I stand up peacefully, content with the time I spent and what I made of it. Perhaps the requirements of my faith are contented by the honest appreciation for the bold and the worthy, despite my own weak participation.

The crowds file out slowly. It’s cold outside in the southern states and we enter the thick of April.

finding out what comes next
late at night
when eyes won’t shut
and peace won’t
come for a reason I’m
ignorant of
and care not to
know of
its not that I’m restless
or stressed
just awake and wishing
I wasn’t

Lawmen must do their jobs
To recover what we’ve lost
But I am no lawman
Despite my resemblance to their lot
I bet some would know what I did
When words fell on the page
One spoke of a row desolated
I’ll speak of their hope returned
I just can’t keep away

Let the beggars choose their byways
Let the rich meet them there
Let the stench that rules their bodies
Be a perfume in the air
I know too well that times like these
Will go to lengths to bear
Broken shoestrings, tattered clothings
Far away from here

And blind men must hear their minds
While unlikeness has turned others deaf
Their homes are unknown to them
They have slept their nights in silence
Disabled
Strangers to the walls about them

Then the feeding frenzy will bring to fame
The traveling hearts wanting to tame
The tumultuous sands that flow like water
But block like bricks

No, I just can’t take it away
I just can’t take me away
“I feel like a wet seed wild
in the hot blind earth”
I just can’t take it away
Oh this is readiness
But no one sees it
And so the passion wanes

And oh, upon that day, I shall come anew
Frank with the thrift and economy
That comes form long-winded thinking
But still breathes and beats

The stroke at dawn
The fading shadows
The stroke at dawn
The hanging gallows
The stroke at dusk and I will die
Pass through the earth never to rise

And on the morrow I shall come anew
Drunk upon the morning’s dew