Strangely Spiritual Verse
Our fig leaf clothing
Hiding our sin
With our own shabby tailoring
Where sin demands blood.
A thousand blood-stained altars
A thousand cruel wars
(As unlikely as it seems)
All tell the Bards great story
To the ever squeamish us:
Our only hope is blood!
Shadows In Spring
The unfolding of the leaf sings the song
Which squelched, wells up within each narrow chest
Of birth and death and birth again to come
(The song the Singer sang from eons past)
The swelling bud casts shadows year by year
The vast unfolding of eternal life.
The Dew (The Day)
Drops of cool clear
Crimeless blood on scalpels
Of green, the bright shout of the sun:
The Conquering King
The fear of the unknown,
The dread of fear itself,
The brutality of war
The nameless, battered wife,
Thorns,thistles, sweat and death;
The signs of mans domain
We too groan and wait
For the conquering King.
Who could guess that our lean souls thus entered,
Through the narrow gate, one cross wide,
Should cross the threshold to the other side
(The emancipation of the soul)
To find the enemy is now the door?
Sweet paradox, life evermore!
Some Ethereal State
Some ethereal state,
Where the world no longer matters,
(Where we don't have to bother with the dishes)
A Sunday morning sedative
To take us far enough from the real,
Not far enough or long enough to last.
So weekly we live in the past,
Then once a week gulp down some god with a glass of wine.
Quick, give me a spiritual fix,
Wrapped in bright colors and muted sounds
Or cardboard covers,
Answers to life in twenty thousand words or less!
Sunday Morning Sedative
A Sunday morning sedative,
With three points
(And a poem)
Administered to the comatose
For spiritual relaxation,
A buffer against an unnerving world.
The cure is of a very short duration,
For a one-half hour inoculation
Best Seller Spirituality
Slick and salable
Soggy and sentimental
Produced and reduced
To economical size.
An exciting, inviting emotional trip
For each new reader's sparkling eyes!