Walking on Water
I was walking on water,
A precarious path,
Every step in danger of sinking.
Blowing and blinding,
Raging and spewing
I looked up.
Was my way sure?
Did I make a false step?
Did my ankle dip below?
What did I see?
Only the hope of your face.
I dropped my baby,
But she could swim.
I am a miner.
I delve in the caves
Between heaven and earth.
Wheeled carts in the cave mine
-My notebooks- I fill
I tap in the deep.
Who will draw my carts
Out into earth’s light?
Who will fashion my gold
And fasten my gemstones
Fit for The Bride?
Out upon the rocky rampart
Unnoticed and alone
Sits the virgin watchman.
Her tears do not distort the view;
She waits and through them watches
Like Anna and old Simeon
Knowing day does come.
She waits and works and watches
Writing plain upon her tablet
Crying for the day
When sons shall run
And darkness flee away.
Earth is raped
And forced to bring forth
Not after its kind,
Like Rosemary’s Baby
Half fiend and half man.
Creation groans in labor
Caught in the evil embrace
Writhing and crying and struggling
To burst free
From the rhythmic thrusts
Of the rapist.
The anguish in this poem is for the corrupting of nature through genetic modifications and the poisons created to kill.
I have always been inside the hedge
Protected, safe and guarded.
Yet as I run non-stop and blindly
Each step just reaches past the edge.
I may by chance discover
Rock or soil or even watery depth
Unseen to me
Below each falling foot.
Onward moving, always dashing,
Ever within, yet ever
On the edge.
How she loves him
She gently strokes his work worn brow
He calls and she comes
He asks and she gives
Her gaze intuits his desire
For his comfort she draws him in
to her warm and beating breast.
How he loves her
Ivory tower his alone
Porcelain delicate, smooth as glass
A treasure fought for
A prize attained
He sets her high
Atop his cluttered trophy shelf.
A man may have the wife of the first stanza and yet never realize the gift and never give her the honor she is due. He may imagine a porcelain prize, his idol on a shelf. She is not a real woman. She is not warm, but cold as glass. Her image blocks his view of the real woman stroking his brow. To him glass is the wife he believes he deserves. This warm woman is the whore he uses.
A woman too may have her masculine prize on the shelf and not see the gift in her arms.
Before his ear can hear it,
Before his eye can see it,
He perceives the coming.
From lonely heights atop the wall
The watchman waits and scans the sky
For bird or cloud or dust or smoke.
He feels and knows, yet does not see.
He looks below at brick and earth
And gropes the ground for movement there.
There’s something in the air beyond,
A song or distant melody
Beyond the audit of his ears, a most familiar strain.
Perceive he must, and grips his silver trumpet fast.
The blast he may not sound too soon,
Or, “Wolf,” would be the cry.
With trembling hand and firming lip
He lifts the trumpet to his mouth.
The time has come for war.
For the Son of man is as a man taking a far journey,
who left his house, and gave authority to his servants, and to every man his work,
and commanded the porter to watch.
Watch ye therefore:
for ye know not when the master of the house cometh, at even, or at midnight, or at the cockcrowing, or in the morning: Lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping.
And what I say unto you I say unto all,