The other day I saw a child,
while others saw, none.
I watched him laugh, loud and wild,
and smile like the sun.
And when I saw his face so near -
for a moment on the screen,
I realized then what some may fear:
that even God has dreams.
Sonogram
Maps of Hell
In hell, the skies are blue as here,
while the gardens, green and green.
The air is crisp, and cool, and clear,
and no smoke is ever seen.
In hell, no demon eats of meat,
of cow, or of fish, or deer,
though each is known to lust to eat,
the rind of children’s ears.
In hell, men grow old and round,
and tire from the lust and mirth.
They live and pass without a sound,
and leave nothing on hell’s earth.
In hell, each dog evokes a smile -
while in fields the cowbells ring,
and pets dance a mad, and wild,
to the sound of children’s screams.
Near hell, there rests an aged sign -
with words I know, now, too well:
“No children past this line.
You’ve found the road to hell.”
The Forty-Five Million
I smile when I see their faces,
forty-five million, black and white,
those who rest softly in their places,
and keep women up at night.
Now, I’m not one for mighty thoughts,
nor those laws written by older men.
But why have love and hold it not?
And when does love begin?
And I may be simple. I may be trite.
(I know not when this all will end).
I just know that without this plight,
I’d have another friend.
I want another friend.
Oh Lord
Oh Lord, I want to bless You,
when the wind calms by and by,
when water wanes with the moon,
or o’er waterfalls and sky.
Oh Lord, I want to bless You,
when lovers break love’s way,
and so pervert its joyous tune,
to have passion for one day.
Oh Lord, I want to bless You,
when others curse Your name -
to form a phrase, if mis-strewn,
into words which speak your praise.
Oh Lord, I want to bless You,
when the penitent stop to breathe,
to fill those moments with a rune,
forever old, and pure, and deep.
Until the world is as it should be -
when time is forgotten, as before -
I shall ever murmur such words, sweet.
For this I am. And was born.
Mistakes in Quotations
So today you made a “mistake”?
I see but one more path,
change humans seem to hate,
as we hope the present will not pass.
We dream of stars of our design -
“the future of our dreams”,
but paths diverge and climb,
and rarely end where they once seemed.
So it is oft in hidden days,
when we reach the stars God threw,
when we look back on today,
and just know – He always knew,
that any “mistake” was but a gift,
that was destined from the start,
which met His end and fit,
into His designs for our heart,
when we find that the glory of a life,
is oft made with big “mistakes”,
as we learned to revel in His light,
and to love the change we hate.
Freedom
As freedom sits alone tonite,
its never been like this before,
never has it felt so alone,
or ever needed someone more.
Will its sun rise in the morning,
that humbled virtue to adore,
which wizened men now decry,
for having kept so many warm?
The Babel Game
Oh the places I will go,
in the great Babel game!
unknown words I long to know,
so Your name I can proclaim,
atop some hill one day,
or perhaps within some low,
for as a player in this game,
there’s no telling where I’ll go!
On the spinning of a dye,
is where I long to be,
within Your winds so wide,
is the only place that I’ve felt free.
And when I reach the end,
which any game does have –
I’ll turn and say “my Friend,
Your cryptics made me glad”,
and I’ll know that I found,
the reason why I was made –
‘twas for the words and sounds,
of the great Babel game.
Moloch
“Hail, Moloch!” the priestess cries tonight,
on her knees, and with her soul aflame,
as the priest with eyes raised towards the sky,
slays another of the nation with no name.
And on and on the trumpets blow their tune,
while each flute flairs upon its merry way:
They cry for glory – for the sun, or moon -
and worship those who preach the same.
Yet though blood has flowed, ’tis no repose,
for Baal smiles not upon this child’s hide,
And so on and on the blood must flow,
And another dream of God – must die.
Tesla
There was a man of science and mystique,
who lived alone, one hundred years ago.
With thoughts of light and its pure reach,
he was entranced, for not much was known.
So every day he stayed up in the night,
and far into the next lonely, waking day,
and with a candle by his bench and side,
he would mark the notes the Spirits gave.
Every morning he’d remain, until a squall,
came at noon to his working place,
and though still toiling – and by the wall -
he’d smile when he heard the water’s pace.
For when he heard the lightning, strike -
’twas as if he’d found some long-lost lover.
It was then he’d stop his work, with clouds alight,
and clap as a salute — from one master to Another.
What is man that Thou art mindful of him?
On Harvard’s stones there rests a clever phrase,
once held dear by men from far off lands.
The words date from those very days,
when Ozymandias’ boast stood true upon the sands.
And like his, they too have slowly whitened,
Bit by bit, with water’s drip, and by and by, alight,
(And fifty years ago their meaning was forgotten,
by men who lay in dust tonight.)
Every time I pass, I read them out anew,
Often in a whisper (with an accent I do well)
For some say they are from Greek, others, Hebrew,
But as for the rest – well, none can tell.
————-
This poem refers to the line “What is man that Thou art mindful of him”? which adorns Emerson Hall at Harvard. It also references the short poem by Shelly “Ozymandias” – http://holyjoe.net/poetry/shelley.htm.
