Remember Bethlehem (a poem)

Remember Bethlehem


Son of Man, Daughter of Man,
Remember the quiet of Bethlehem.
Remember how the moonlight smote
the dust motes and lunar moths like
an astral kiss one Wednesday night
while glory cried the katydids and
The Lord of the Universe waved a single
straw with newborn, new-founded gravity.

Remember still suburban peregrinations—
of more prestige than the Dolorosa—
that stricken you with such holiness
as breeze and swan-laughs can muster.
And keep heart-side that hand-stitched brocade
which you held to light in clutch and knew:
this was singular, holy, delight of
your soul, precious as Baptismal Robes.

Remember the crusaders, neo-liberal shmucks
who give more than their left-hand can know;
the alcoholic in graffiti alley more consecrated
than a hundred priestly virgos; the chip
of no-paint on the girl’s blue pinky like
a window, a rending, in the Creative cloth.
All the Masses in the world weigh poor against
the sleepless mother and the liturgy in her heart.

Remember, child, the measure of a glance,
how unwavering eyes have strength to pass
alms like x-rays; how supermen change in phonebooths
when they call home and their alien hearts melt;
how makeup-dabs jostle Earth’s foundation
like Lenten ashes and the boy with glasses seems
a Savior. Do not mistake such cloud-breaks as
mundane, for smaller things inherit the stars.

Son of Man, Daughter of Man,
Remember the quiet of Bethlehem.
Remember the mysticisms of tea bags
and toaster-ovens, mint face-wash like Holy Water.
If God was found in Heaven, no need
for Him to stoop to Earth; yet our doorstep-
swaddled child arrives, to turn mountains
to molehills, and plunder Hell of triviality.


To Miss Frightened-Eyes in the Mirror – A Poem

To Miss Frightened-Eyes in the Mirror (OR: All Will Be Well)


All will be well, poor thing,
all will be well,
even though I see your screams
in the watery spark in my iris.
I spot your visage, dimly, as
through a looking-glass.
I’d reach out to hold you,
but I fear the demanding rap
on my closet door.


All will be well, my dear,
all will be well,
even though your neck is bruised
by my calloused clawing reach.
I’m sorry to snuff you, I sob,
like a Venetian moor when he
thinks his love estranged.
This is a mercy killing, my love, for
little girls die in war.


All will be well, my soul,
all will be well,
for I promise better days than this.
I see how pure your heart remains,
though the world has raped you bloody.
I’d promise sunflowers and silk if
I knew I could; but at least let me
promise a kiss, a warmth, a moment.
You’re so brave.


All will be well, my heart,
all will be well
for they know not what they do.
We feel the first stirrings of Spirit even
now, premonitions of lilies, dew, and
a world without end, without fear.
The wind blows in from higher country, there
where our mother, our brother, our lovelies
all dance with us.


All will be well, I say,
all will be well.
I begin to be whole again – waxing ended.
Cocoon unraveling, haze lifting,
music in genesis as the Deluge abates.
It is not good for man to be alone,
but from the rib of the old self has sprung
a garden nymph, full with fruit, brimming smiles,
awaiting Divine rain.


All has been well, my God,
all has been well.
I confess to too long a watery grave,
I once mere mirror to the sky.
Now, Adonai, I dervish before the stars,
For it is good to be in ellipsis again,
a silver bowl to reflect the Sun,
alight with his penetrating heat, no more
to envy the Moon.


Sociopath – A Poem


The march of dullness crawls across line and page,
slowly wrapping up, but never ending, the strain of today.
My emotions a long maelstrom, me their long victim,
both at last rest in the only way I know: shipwreck.

The pathos has caught up at last to my emaciated mind,
and my limbic motors sputter, spiral, and then shatter.
The threshold is met, the cap is reached,
and the last emotional calorie is spent. Penniless.

Sociopath is a charged word, and this place is hardly permanent,
an ugly truck stop on this death-bound rain-soaked drive,
but I am beautifully numb, anesthized by overdrive,
having cared so much that all caring is used. Careless.

I’ve always been afraid of this bare-soul waste,
when the lacrimosa has dried up and the cruel jester laughs
at how the body moves on even when tears are left ungenerated.
Movement is gyration, stillness is stoney. I remain.

Although reduced to the life of an automaton,
I can yet render robotic praise,
because God made the morphine as well as the thorn.