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No StonesNo Stones
I stood there, sins and secrets on display;
The suns blank stare and their blank stares alike
Were pitiless. A doe, me, caught in fields
Not mine, ensnared by scribes whose love of Law
Brought sin and lies. The unknown Teacher heard
Them out and bent to write his rule in sand,
That sand! As transient now as my hours.
Our Fathers! The stain on my garment spread
The stain of guilt, of disobedience
The comfort that I sought in others arms
Will haunt me to my dying day today.
He rises, turns and speaks with weight and peace:
You who have not sinned cast the first stone.
A silence. One by one they drop their rocks
The oldest leave first, young men drift away
In rueful shame at this. He turns to me
A question in his eyes. Where have they gone?
Why do accusers fly? If they condemn not
Neither then shall I. My heart! I felt
Unfold in Love and free
Small GracesSmall Graces
What lawn-loving suburbanite wont start muttering
Curses at the pests as he stalks back to his shed
For the Roundup? Unpleasant, unexpected, untamable:
One wonders if he is simply envious that God can do it better
After all, isnt it His breath that flings
The cotton through the air, seemingly at random?
Ex nihilo, as it were,
So that creations wildest crowning glory
May reclaim every lawn, every crooked path paved smooth,
Every tomb painted with religious varnish, every cup
Polished only on the outside.
But there is no room in His garden for the greenhouse darlings
In whom his loving attentions breed only further need
For self-worshiping order. The dandelions in their awkward beauty
Exist. They demand little.
Insidious yellow graces, complicating the lush pastures
Of Pharisaical existence. Weeds define yards; gardeners
All one day will bow the trowel in awe
To an uncultivated kingdom.
Swift spun through spaceSwift spun through space as planet, wheeled and whirled,
About an axis hidden in the void.
The sphere by fate and chance, it seems, is hurled
And by its hurling nature falls, destroyed
By subtle frost. By unseen mover led
It wanders on a path of purpose vague,
Haste making on a sunward path, star-sped
In solar heat, perhaps to melt, remade.
For fixéd love, love fixed with every kiss
This sun stands firm and never need you quit
This warmth, this summer here, this embraced bliss
For powers that made wander, make too this.
(To gravity of guidance we submit )
Intricacies which never run amiss.
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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