(from Zechariah 12:10b)

I. 

Jesus, You are holy!
Jesus, You are holey!

II. 

from Your holes: Your five, gaping lacerations
has bled the Blood that wholly rescues the lost.
from wounds on Your Brow, residue of your crown
has trickled the flood of red-grace hydrations.
from Your side, speared after counting the cost
came blood and water gushing, our sin to drown.
from Your pierced feet, spiked to the deathly cross
leaks the rushing tides, carrying us from all loss.

III.

Jesus, You are holy!
Jesus, You are holey!

IV.

from Your holes has leaked out: abiding eternity
- into the confines of time and its resident restraints.
(the consoling message of lasting life and bliss).
from Your holes, drips the hope of palpable glee
the agelessness that refashions the hearts of saints
the enduring promise of enduring (heaven's kiss);
robust existence without clocks or even calendars
has dribbled out, altering our days and forevers.

V.

Lord Jesus, thankfully, You are holy!
Lord Jesus, thankfully, You are holey!

Poetry Reading Tracker

Poetry collections I've read in entirety:

¹. Collected Poems  by Philip Larkin

2. At the Foot of Heaven by Kevin Max Smith

3. Hardy by Thomas Hardy (Everyman's Library Pocket Poets)

4. Swinging on a Star by David Trinidad

5. The Selected Poetry of Edna St Vincent Millay, edited by Nancy Milford

6. Beowulf

7. Fragments of an America (vol 1) by Chris McNally

8. Chicago Poems by Carl Sandburg

9. Carl Sandburg Selected Poems (Gramercy Books edition)

10. From Where the Rivers Come by Richard Solly

11. The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes

12. Favorite Poems by William Wordsworth (Dover Thrift Edition)

Sonnet (from Proverbs 3:34b)

we are forgotten so easily.
(billions of global neighbors,
little fruit for all our labors)
and even though ideally

this would not be the case:
ponder ants encountered,
recall how unremembered
each was, without a trace.

or stroll in an old cemetery
with vanished lives shown
by the engraved tombstones,
vacant from anyone's memory.

but then embrace this wholly
- "He giveth grace to the lowly."

(from 2 Corinthians 3:2-3)

another teenage girl's parents are getting divorced (she told her church youth small group last night) because they've "fallen out of love" and "fight" and other nonsense that sprouts from lips as weeds in an untreated backyard, and spreads like dandelion seeds blown by the unsuspecting wind.

so we are letters written in exile

how does the world look now through these new glasses: which are out of focus and the wrong prescription and too large for her face, constantly sliding down to the tip of her nose? do the dreams vacate the subconscious, as she lay on this pain, stretched below her as a sheeted mattress when she closes her eyes and heart to the invading moon and star light? (they say kids are resilient--they always bounce back, right?)

so we are letters written in exile 

will this ever leave her real home, or stay, uninvited, like the house guest without the good manners to leave at an appropriate if not scheduled time? will it be there on that July day when rings are exchanged and a diamond glints in the sunlight? or that February day when the fruit of the marriage bed exits the birth canal to unbearable noise and unreasonable light?

so we are letters written in exile

will it ride on her--piggyback through the office: the budget meetings, the overtime, the promotions, the employment politics? will it be among the green of her waist watching salad, the white of her self-medicating wine? will it poke its nose in their bedroom--their gymnasium where they box 12 rounds and then leave, sweaty, for the attorney and their legally, detailed, stipulated life? (free again like they wanted)

so we are letters written in exile

it will be there when she's laying motionless in the beige visitation room, as a man in a black suit starts the engine on a black hearse to warm it for the journey to the plot she was compelled, against her wishes but with good common sense, to purchase as a necessary evil to life (or rather death) on this exiled world.

so we, each, we, are to be well-read letters written in exile  




(* inspired by a line from the poem "Friday Night in the Royal Station Hotel" by English poet Philip Larkin)

(from Luke 6:44, with Acts 5:30, 1 Peter 2:24)

the caressing breeze blows through the branches
of the apple orchard, so leaves soothingly rustle.
the branches, weighed down with the bounty
of summer sun and discharged rain clouds,
welcome the wind with uplifted arms, prepared
for an expansive and loving, intimate embrace.

the apples catch the sunlight with a flash reflection,
glowing with the overflow of gathered summer luster.
shiny, gleaming, fruit, calling out to passing eyes
with promises of luscious taste and juicy chins
and satiated hunger, a suggestion of life itself,
deposition on the quality of roots, seeds, soil.

the afternoon darkness pervaded the skullish hill,
mingling with the taunts, tears and terrorized faces
surrounding the trees, recently planted in the dry earth,
their fruit hanging, in agony, with blood juices trickling
downward from uplifted arms nailed to branches
when the Depleted Fruit on the middle Tree expired.

that Fruit, Who said "take, eat My body given"
and "My flesh is really food, My blood truly drink"
has fed countless souls with the fruit of His Tree,
the fruit of guiltless peace and graveless prospects,
shiny, gleaming lives, testifying to hope, mercy.
so- by its plentiful fruit you know His healthy Tree.

(from John 14:6)

we've constructed magnificent 
transcontinental interstates
that criss-cross all our estates
from Atlantic to the Pacific.

But we do not know the Way.

we've laid down passenger tracks
for Amtrak trains, elaborate rooms
to carry us like mothers' wombs
softly sleeping on our backs.

But we do not know the Way.

we sail the seas, deep and blue
in plantation size ocean liners
gorging booze in floating diners
forgetting the bill will come due.

But we do not know the Way.

we've rocketed to beyond space
depositing satellites overhead
for GPS to guide us ahead
so we can know our place.

But we do not know the Way.

we've erected each grand airport
from which jet planes can soar
and take us to a distant shore
escaping troubles we can't export.

But we do not know the Way.

We manufacture each hearse
to carry the others far away
down the road of our someday
to our destiny, strictly adverse.

But we do not know the Way.

(from Psalm 141:4)

the sky is inclined to darkness
when the sun vacates westward
below the horizon, like water poured
down the drain, leaving less.

LORD, incline not my dusky heart
toward the evil around, so prevalent
but, chiefly, within (my soul malevolent).
Shepherd, impel shadows to depart!

SON, do not vacate the space, within
but illumine my dingy heart again.

Sonnet (from Colossians 2:12, Acts 2:38, Titus 3:5)

Dead crawl on knees, hands
dry mouthed with dehydrated body
-vacant expression, through the sands
approaching the eight sided sea.

The sea is carved from stone
brimmed, yet without leaking
hydration- poured to atone,
prompting the soul to sing.

The water is deep, dark red
the shade of withdrawn Blood
cleansing what's behind - ahead
- now, in the rejuvenating flood.

The baptismal font's a footpath;
antecedent- Messiah's Blood-bath.




* note- for a "sea" being a constructed object meant to hold water, see 1 Kings 7:23-26

(from John 4:14 & 7:38)

submerged, underground
beneath, among the organs
the sacred water springs
upward and outward
downward and backward.
to the eyeballs, rinsing
them thoroughly, to see,
to perceive, by true trust.
to the ears, washing them
both, to hear (to listen)
to intake, fully, the preached Word.
to the mouth, the tongue
cleansing the haphazard words
to speech with thought, intent,
reason, mercy, praise, clarity.
to the hands, gushing, flooding
to forcibly un-clinch, to extend
the free fingers towards others
in comprehension, compassion, charity.
to the feet, unshackling 
from combat boots to sandals of peace
to walk the other's pathways
in shoes that don't quite fit
to fathom the pains, trials, faults.
to the graveyard, to liquidate
the death-casket with the
underground spring of water
to everlasting life, the
droplets collecting and replacing
all the clumps of dirt
and soil, everlastingly.

(from Matthew 20:16, with Galatians 3:13)

I. 
Let those who finish last
raise their hands in praise
the ones who don't race fast
worship Him all of their days.
for His kingdom is upside down
made for the humble and meek
those who throw down their crown
and rejoice in being weak.

For the last will be made first,
face to face with the Son.
For us "lasts" Jesus was cursed,
and with His cross has won.
The First One took last place
to rescue us "lasts" by grace.

II.
the First left His divine throne
for a man-made thorny crown
to purchase for His very own
those with knees bent down
He lifts up those last, beggars
with nail pierced Hands of love
and fashions hearts into altars
building them a Home above.

For the last will be made first,
face to face with the Son.
For us "lasts" Jesus was cursed,
and with His cross has won.
The First One took last place
to rescue us "lasts" by grace.

the First One, now, in each forgiven soul
became last to wholly redeem us whole.

(from Ephesians 2:12-13)

There's a voracious monster inside our soul, 
     we were once far off from God. 
Craving to utterly consume us whole, 
     we were once far off from God. 
the monster- a disease of our own origin, 
     we were once far off from God. 
moral failures that conquer us over again, 
     we were once far off from God.
And death hunts us from the cradle
     we were once far off from God.
the Problem of Problems, we cannot handle
     we were once far off from God.
the mighty foe we cannot defeat or outrun
     we were once far off from God.
chasing us, as certain as the setting sun
     we were once far off from God.
and the devil, the adversary we inherit
    we were once far off from God.
who hates "the Image", our lasting benefit
    we were once far off from God.
a ravenous wolf prowling every last crumb
    we were once far off from God.
to drag us to his hellish fiefdom
    we were once far off from God.

From under His crown of thorns it flowed
     brought near by Christ's blood    
from His nail pierced Arms it poured
     brought near by Christ's blood
from His speared Side it gushed
    brought near by Christ's blood
from His beautiful gospel Feet it dripped
    brought near by Christ's blood
from His agonizing Pores it sweated
    brought near by Christ's blood
into His gracious Eyes it invaded
    brought near by Christ's blood
into His healing Hands it trickled
    brought near by Christ's blood
from His side, with the water, it rushed
    brought near by Christ's blood
across His Knees, mother kissed, it passed
    brought near by Christ's blood
onto His few disciples at the cross it rained
    brought near by Christ's blood
onto His water walking Toes it collected
    brought near by Christ's blood
around the Lips of the Divine Word it ran
     brought near by Christ's blood
around His open Ears it circled
     brought near by Christ's blood
from the Maker of water it washed
    brought near by Christ's blood
under His Father's gaze it saves
    brought near by Christ's blood
by the Holy Ghost's power it speaks
    brought near by Christ's blood.

(from Acts 19:5, an old poem posted here for preservation)

THE Jew
hung around
with a wooden
spoon
by a large soup pot filled with invigorating water
into which He tossed
a heaping cup of Fs,
a finely diced E,
sufficiently sautéed Is,
and plenty of spiced Ls
which He mixed vigorously,
with His wooden
spoon.

He poured the Ls, Is, Fs, and Es,
into each guests
eight sided stone
bowl.
The vigorously mixed and lettered liquid was
then poured on each person's head
in 3 distinct yet unified bursts
till each guest was emphatically soaked
in
THE Jew's
lettered, worded
soup.