Green Zone

Yes, I'm still working on my essays. Another poem for this week.

Green Zone

In this moment
if those around me in this city vanished
I wouldn't miss them

I would walk among fresh ruins
and take a deep quiet breath
to lay to rest concrete buildings
before they began to softly crumble

I would allow the morning sun
shining on weeds and asphalt
to gently bake my inert core
Later, in the early afternoon
I would hear an owl
sound a call across empty lots
to signal the beginning of the day's death

In the evening
I would hear crickets on four lane boulevards
and I would hear the quietest patter
of coyote paws on the sidewalk
At night, I would stretch out on cool asphalt
in the middle of a forgotten intersection
under a galaxy split in half
by a flickering traffic light,
an ember of another age,
as I pondered the feng shui of its arrested energy

and I would allow the hush of the quietest breeze
to rebuild my core
without the ravenous churning
of survival and desire

and, in the moment,
before the age that I had left behind
came rushing back into time and space to confront me with a blast
I would have carved a space,
a 'green zone' in my being,
to be a vantage point
where I could see the coervice forces of the city,
as these forces,
manifested in ravenous people surrounding me,
tried to penetrate my consciousness

and, in my 'green zone',
I would allow my vision of the city as it lied empty and still
to be the backdrop
on which I super-imposed
the city as it now confronts me in all of its fury
so that its fury would never seem
to vast and too omnipresent
for me to see beyond

In Search of a Miracle

Another poem. A snapshot of the angst that often accompanies the of life of faith.

In Search of a Miracle

A Jesus more available than ever
and yet not

2000 years ago, I could, maybe
have boarded a boat
and met him face to face
and, maybe
have received my miracle
(and have my personal world shaken to its core)

Now, I must access Jesus
with a heart
that must cut through
a thicket of modernity, daily
so that the Holy Spirit
can shine on my mind's eye
for me to see that I am
recognized by Jesus
as one waiting in the line
that lepers once waited in (and still do)

and trust
that the momentary breakthough
--this momentary vision of Jesus--
in the midst of working through
all that my heart must work through
is the miracle
penultimate to any miracle that may follow

as the light
in this new vision of Jesus
illuminates a new direction
for me to look toward,
and as it illuminates
some aspect of the circumstance
of my waiting
that has a utility
in its present existence
in shaping a transformation in my soul,
the Lover of my soul
sees to it
that no lesson is left unlearnt
as I wait in the line, alone
as sees to it that no aspect of my transformation
is left undone

So I wait
in the midst of this
indefinite fast from certainty
--with fury and restlessness punctuated with peace--
for the miracle
as all manner of spiritual growth
is drawn from the circumstance
like marrow sucked from a bone
and as dreams deferred
become the poles on which
hope hangs and grows like a vine

a pilgrimage

It's been a long, tiring week at work, so I'm offering another poem instead of an essay.

A Pilgrimage

The Spirit of God
called an old man
in Etheopia
to carve Coptic churches, alone,
into the rocks
of a distant mountain.

Perhaps
these temple-caves being carved
are like arks
that are being readied
for an ominous, unwritten destiny,
an Armageddon
that will drive Christians
to find shelter in remote altitudes.

Or, perhaps,
the destinies of these temple-caves
are intended
by God
to be blank and pure
until they are claimed
by the sundry few
who are driven to them
for sundry reasons.

Or, perhaps,
a part of God's Spirit
was feeling pinched
and required room to breathe
by communing with an old man
whose spirit
is now resonating
with a solitude
only found among distant rocks
carved into the ancient, reverent form.

Longing for that solitude,
and longing for that communion,
I let my spirit travel
on the wings
of imagination and yearning
to one of these unclaimed,
empty, rock-hewn churches
to rest.

There, I found solace
in its dust, wind and shadows.

you are a radio

I am stalling for more time to complete further essays, so I am offering you one of my poems this week:


YOU ARE A RADIO

Whose circuitry can be positively or negatively affected

according to which station you're attuned to

You have no off button

and you are always attuned to one station or another

You have the power within you to change your station

to one better and healthier

There are powerful forces at work to keep you

from understanding this choice

by enslaving you to expedient pleasures

making Stillness the enemy

as they offer their wares

as the antidote to your boredom and restlessness --

all the while selling these wares as essential

to your liberation and "individuality"

(liberating you from your inner life

and the conscious capacity you might otherwise have

to master your "radioness")

so that you will be uwittingly attuned

to what these forces want

while they avoid the scrutiny that they

would otherwise have for your circuitry

or the competition they would otherwise have with

other, healthier radio stations.