Becoming Ourselves

Come, Holy Future, And fall on us, we pray. Make us, acquainted with decay In our deeds, our homes Our fields, our bones To see this rust, Accumulated crust Dispelled; To know (and love) The Life revealed Beneath, beyond; Life of the Age of the River and the Trees Of the City with gates Unclosed,…Read more Becoming Ourselves


Carried, borne across, Shifted, Passed Over - what? The death-defined dimensions From 'here' to 'there', From earth to heaven, Barren and void to Green brimming paradise? Or the Red Seas between Bondage and Promise, Compulsion and trust, Graveclothes and Gardener? Or transposed from one Key of meaning to another, Minor to major, Babble to gospel,…Read more Translation

A funny kind of glory

Glory: the garish goal Of our inner PR agent. A hollow crown; vapid desire Of emptied hearts, fleeting And fickle, a mocking Coquette fooling old suitors Who should know better; Disloyal to the last and beyond, As the breeze that scatters Our ashes away. "Glory!" The mournful wail Of crushed humanity in Its wake. An…Read more A funny kind of glory


What darkness is this, Neighbour, friend, That shrouds your worth From my sight? What preoccupying fog Leaves me to stumble Against you, bruising And cursing this rude Encounter of contrary souls? What light will show, Sister, brother, This stone to be the pearl Of great price? In what freedom might I walk, if your goodness…Read more Stumbling-blocks

A little blind love

Blind, because sometimes All we see is cause for Regret, frustration, Yearning, or anger. Forgetful, because sometimes Memory is but a misshaped Mirror of judgements And justifications. Unknowing, because sometimes Our science is a hiding From conscience, our Mastery an excuse for self. A Cloud, because sometimes, Echoes silenced, surrounded, Mystery is easier trusted Than…Read more A little blind love

For they know not what they do

All who do what they must, Following codes and expectations Not their own, fearing shame or Fleeing derision, a parent's Disappointment, the stigma of Unemployment, the derision of The few they call friends: Father, forgive. All who live in times When some truths ought remain Unspoken, some powers never Seriously confronted, when some Sins can…Read more For they know not what they do