Poems: Confessions and Rants

For all of you who faithfully follow my blog–Thank you. You are all the best. You put up with some pretty feeble attempts from me trying tackle the mystery and the tension of Christianity. A lot of what I do is write “Religious Poetry” and what has been labeled as “spiritual writing.” I think that is fantastic. Although I have no intention of ending up in some Christian bookstore, and I would be sad if I also ended up in the “spirituality” section of a place like Barnes and Noble, I am happy to bear the title of one who writes religiously about religion. Have no fear, publication is a far off road. Anyway, what I am offering to you today are two poems. I have no idea where they came from or what they really even mean. I have been thinking and praying and reading and sleeplessly dreaming over two words: Inspiration and imagination. Both of these words seem to me to be incarnational, meaning they are human and divine. Bear with me as I continue to develop more thoughts in this area as it comes to the aesthetics. I have only begun to turn my thoughts to more “incarnational” understanding of art.

This preface, I realize, is both vague and abstract, but the good news is that my words are irrelevant to the poetry posted below. YAY…except…thank you for reading, be inspired, by both our God and not our God, and never leave your imagination at home. Cheers!

As a short aside: The second poem, The longer one…doesn’t really feel right to me in terms of the differences between the beginning and the end. It feels more like two poems. I’m just posting to get my thoughts out and to hear feedback from you wonderful people. Thanks.

 

Confession

I stumbled down the hall

To my confessional bed

To purge the sins

I numbered to infinity

Within my head

Buried beneath white sheets

“Forgive, forgive,” all I said

Before my eyes slipped off

To dream instead

 

My God of 1882—Now and Anno Domini

 

My god is dead

 

My god shatters

When it strikes the floor

 

My god shrivels

The lungs black

Yellows the teeth

 

My god is my stomach

And also its putrid baby

The bile’y smear of grease

On the inside of a toilet bowl

 

My god is a straw puppet

Scarecrow’d across wood

With a sewn on smile

An Idol for vegetables to worship

And to pray to keep the crows away.

 

My god is a pillow

For my head to keep out bad dreams

Shield my ears and bury my screams

To soften the rawness praying should

rub into my never bending knees

 

My god is an answer

The product of addition subtraction

Of theory and dinners cooling in ovens

While a wife sleeps alone and formulas

Dust blackboards: x=42 Irony

Unable to answer the problem

Why is my wife fucking Roger Jones?

 

My god is numbers and words that cannot

(Now matter how many books

Or PHD signed experiments claim)

Define paradox—never-changing-shape-shifting-

Invisible-enigmatic-being—more foggy words

Dissipating from my palm daily as the sun

Sheds the clouds like the robes of king.

 

My God is dead

A man scarecrow’d

Too

Across

His crow pecked face

An omniscient smile

Stretched between

His bleedy ears

My God is dead

My God is dead

My God is dead

A guttural ca-caw

And the rooster begs the sun

To rise and bake the mist

Lingering above the corn

Above the straw-stuffed

Face of the scarecrow

The rooster’s moanings

For morning cease

He is risen.

 

I welcome your comments

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