The Messenger

He comes to the bridge, and the current, he sees,

Is Swollen, uneven, and deep.

He squints at the sun, then down through the trees

In thought (or is it in sleep).


But now there's no time, for he or his ride,

To rest, or even to think.

The covered span still awaits; his horse trots inside.

At the Inn, they'll both have a drink.


Thanks to small blessings, despite heat and haze,

The roof protects from the sun.

The walls hide distractions and focus their eyes

Away from the water's swift run.


Of these too-few seconds, he takes one or two

In the echoing dark of the bridge.

To ponder his his night; what he must now do:

He shivers, then rides to the ridge.

Blame The Weather

Morning came; the sun? Not in sight
Early on, I felt something not right
Lying there, asking "Why?"
As I looked at the sky
No sign of warm morning light.
Cool, damp zephyrs licked all round my head
Having, with them, subliminal dread
Over us, a grey sky
Looked like it may cry
Yet perennially just sulked, instead

Torn Asunder

Inside the Holy of Holies, a veil lies on the ground.
Inside the hollowed-out earth, He lies without a sound.
The veil was torn in two before it fell upon the floor
His body, torn apart, was brought down when he breathed no more.

Soon the curtain will be moved, a new one in it’s place.
His body too, will not be found in this cold, empty space.
And yet, despite their simultan’eous tragic fall
They represent opposing truths; and one: no truth at all.

For Jesus’ "missing" body means more than an empty tomb
While a new curtain still will simply hide an empty room.
The open doorway now revealed the emptiness inside
The ark was gone, replaced not with the law, but pious pride.

The sacrifices, valid still, were made by two-faced men.
With Sacrifice of Priest and Victim, they need not be made again.
Thus, while the new veil will seem like the old (it would appear).
His body, Glorified, will breathe upon them, “Do not fear.”

Desert Haiku (or, the story of my life)

Destination, known.

He got me this far, and yet,

I struck the rock twice

Blurred

If I was like beloved John,
I'd know where I would stand:
Always knowing His affection.

Or even Cain, his brother gone
(Further, by his own hand).
Exiled, yet with protection.

But no, I feel like Lazarus
Entombed, and thus, not there
To hear His grief-filled cry

Now, stumbling through the stench of pus,
A foul shroud all I wear.
I'm saved, alive, but know not why.

Night in the Train Station

After scanning the floor, a lucky break:
There's a bench with an open seat I can take.
Forty-two minutes, my train will arrive,
I sip my coffee: stay awake, stay alive.

Two nearby hobos fight loudly and curse,
"But," I think to myself, "It could always be worse."
And when I get up, I confirm what I think:
In the men's room a man cleans his socks in the sink

I glance at the clock, must be soon, I believe,
But thirty more minutes until my reprieve.
The piped in music's rhythm competes
As a crackhead's rhythmic mantra repeats.

"I don't know, I don't  know, I don't," he intones
While most of us hide our heads in our phones.
I get up once more; find a new bench again,
With eighteen more minutes till I see my train.

A brief pause in this concert: a policeman walks by.
And for a moment I let out a sigh.
My new benchmate smells of many foul things,
And a few feet behind me a raspy voice sings.

Nine minutes remain in this unwanted storm
So I start to meander towards the platform
When suddenly I hear the loudspeaker say
"Just hold on there, fella, there's been a delay."

The passengers turn at this new renege
Avoiding eye contact like it was the plague.
I close my eyes tightly; fall back in my seat,
A Sisyphean encore, the show will repeat.

Creekside, helpless

Alone I sit beside a tree
Which sits beside a creek.
A lonely man stares back at me:
He looks, but does not speak.

Relieved, I nod in thanks to him,
His silence is a gift.
When he nods back, I grab a limb,
Release it, watch it drift.

It's journey is my focus now;
My new friend? Left behind.
I watch the twig with furrowed brow.
Our fates are intertwined.

It floats, gets caught in rocks, then, free,
Is sent over a fall
I run beside, trip, scrape my knee;
I search for what I saw

I wait beyond the dam's short drop
For my stick to emerge.
I squint into the stream, then stop.
It must still be submerged.

I sigh, and before I return
Look upward toward the sky
Thus, missed it safely leave the churn
Yes, that's a nice, fine lie.

A twig that I did not see crushed
Must still be floating, see?
I think this and my friend (still hushed)
Shrugs sadly back at me.