To the March

In deep winter

she chooses to suspend 

All the ordinary chores 

Drags a heavy fishing net to the belly

of this man-made stream

Feet first into

cold deep

Swims upstream

where they wait for her

bobbing on the water

snagged by the naked

limbs of winter branches

An old oil can, adorned with red duct tape,

several empty beer bottles,

torn flotational device,

And a veritable tableau of shirts and trousers

Snagged on naked limbs

then animated by the wind

Once carefully extricated

she lines the children up by year, gender, alleged disability

Names them back to life

So they can indeed

Fly, flock of winter birds 

to inauguration.

How safe is abortion?

Years ago I did an informal study of the language associated with the debate over abortion.

At that time, forty years ago, both sides of the debate referred to “the contents of the uterus” as babies.

This is indicting.

In the 1970s we knew and articulated a simple fact:  the contents of the uterus during a pregnancy include at least one human being.

I say all of this because…

Socrates is immortal.

I know, seeming non-sequitur as well as a bit of a hijacked syllogism. But if you think about it, that is exactly what abortion apologetics is about–hijacked syllogisms.

Track with me here.

The original and better known Socratic syllogisms run like this:

1. All men are x

2. Socrates is a man

3. Therefore Socrates is x

X could be mortal, animal, sentient, mammalian…

You get the idea…

But what if men were immortal?  Then Socrates would be immortal.  His life would be defined by more than the hemlock, the sham trial, the bad marriage, the stopped heart.  He would be out there somewhere, forever, thinking, feeling, real forever.

So what does that have to do with the safety of abortion?

What if we substitute human fetus for Socrates or men?

1. All human fetuses are…

Half of all abortion patients die.  Those patients are the children of the other half of the patients.

Anyone who says abortion is safer than giving birth simply has the math terribly wrong.

Imagine if this math applied to all medical appointments: half of the people who went to the doctor on any day would not only not leave the clinic alive, they also could have their remains given to research concerns for money.

Still, what does that have to do with Socrates being immortal?

If Socrates is immortal

Then Someone or Thing has made him so.

A Word perhaps, an eternal Word.

Born into poverty, at risk of being the victim of infanticide, not because of who he was right then but because of who he would be…

Who they would be…the millions of would-be people.

Who like, Socrates, deserve true logic, not faulty syllogism.

Modern Ghost

at the edge of the edge of the silver dance 

the stuff of space becomes so attenuated that

a single floating atom

cannot see the ghost mama

(because there is, by definition, nothing there)

Yet she is.

Curled around her lone, fetal darling

So much smaller than a human

blastocyst 

Just a nucleus, protons, the usual electrons 

Would be panicky lonely

Except for the unseen but still 

so present 

Modern ghost.

Sunshine

having lost the ancient word for fire, underestimate it into neat concentric squares folded, shelved and forgotten next to ugly Christmas sweaters, baby pictures, and odd clay art projects of now-adult progeny

Neglect means nothing to it, coiled, implacable, unfazed by short and mortal attention spans

Let the last leaf fall but…

Do not neglect the sun

Content for now to burn

At a safe distance

Until the day it will unhinge from invisible moorings and float

Balloon-like Beauty towards us

Suddenly, immaculately attentive

To this nakedness before impending fire.


Everyday Christmas

Crowded city, lonely manger

Tired little mama so close 

to the house of bread

You tell me the story of

tokens we substitute for transubstantiation 

Exchanging trinkets for the

Stuff of life (everlasting)

or looking for the little clues-

“The ones who still hold on”

So very far from home

He knows you

try to pull a fast one

Child with the big words

In his eyes

Calls your bluff

I know you love Christmas!

Light is no ordinary word when spoken 

In the dark

Commanding songs of rescue from the sleep-deprived

Who ponder why

Gold…frankincense…myrrh

gifts for the

Master-builder

Who makes a transom from a cross.

Fixed Points of Light

I squint to the horizon of “us”

To see you

gazing each day at

The thumbprints of eternity

Finding  only

autonomic dopplering

Morse code for G-O-D

While I, all dervish need

Lean my head against

His broken chest 

Hear the beating heart of God

Shout so loud

A pitchy song of adoration 

At the center of this

Expanding infinite:

Skies, scars, planets, constellations,

Pulsars, telemetry, metonymy

All portmanteaus for

Leaves in early winter shook loose from the hair of the mother tree

lighthouses fixed to a rocky shore 

Amidst inkwell seas

We bob in the dark

Fixed points of light

Crayoned Heaven

think of the worst book

Each page, each word, each sentence 

Awful for a long time until

They are re-written

With the simple line drawings of a child

Obscuring words and pictures of 

darkness, evil, or moldy and stained 

garden-varietal venality

With the loveliest trees

Birds in flight /charcoaled nimbi

Outlined halos

Their feathery heads tilted

Ever-so-slightly-quizzical

Asking why are you sad?

Each page of darkness 

Transformed by this

Ferociously tender

Child-

Light, where there used to be all those

Terrible monsters

Crayoned over/ into heaven

By this poet-redeemer

word spoke to life.

The Lost Cause

I looked it up,

The thing about rainbows…when none are in sight

What do you do with a fallen, broken

Rain-drenched world?

Ignore the indirect saturation of light (filtered through heavy 

Clouds)

Put ineluctable 

Signs in the sky

Sometimes vivid, others spiraling, concentric

Insinuated into ordinary

Sunsets

Sure, I got it–rainbows

The unfortunate companions of unicorns

Neither make the boat…

Or as I prefer to think–both

The misunderstood rhino

The glinting prismatic light 

Or more importantly–James Baldwin, evoking

Saint Peter…

Fire the next time

His anger, his dungeon, his elegant use of fire

As both a noun and a verb

I can barely look straight at

That kind of righteous rage

Much less the real

God

Who raises a Son

To rudder, anchor, mast, and sail

The one and only vessel

Which could

Will

Has

Sailed the sea of fire…

the next time.


Break my bones

middle page of something 

My words to you 

unnailed, unpierced, still love

Disconnect.  Disconnect 

these broken 

Bones, sinews, ligaments 

Teeth and bones become 

Rebellious things in the house

Unknit, unswept, unmade

Until…

what is left?

When I cannot walk to you, run to you 

Reach the limit of the horizon 

Lie awake old

Teeth, old bones 

Grind out hours in the dark 

wondering where was

Ezekiel’s army beneath

integumentary sand

Old bones 

No longer insanguinate

They lie down, sleep children cuddled beneath

The coverlet of 

God singing His 

Bruising love song

Lullaby in the place of the skull

Has, is, will

Sing to the dead

Broke-bone army

Spoke to life

Grip the blade,

Fit to fight

Benediction for the girl child 

I have thought of this, my little love

Rifled through the pockets of my diminished 

Powers of speech and human governance,

To find you all good things:

Enhanced night vision

Kick-ass ninja skills

The irrefutable assurance of your loveliness

Not enough.

So let us add:

Dragons rise to your command

Eagles lift you to the place where air grows thin

and may you

always see

The clear road home.

Too much, you protest

So down to this, 

voice of love

Talitha, cumi.