Spiritual Elements
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Unaware Of Heaven

The universe had fallen,
     flickering light and shadow
pulsing down streets of time;
     glow of angels scattered
like glitter on the floor of creation.

Electric colors of a night of defiance
     sprinkled on the sidewalk,
running down the gutter of minds
     reflecting our image as we pass,
unaware, of heaven.

 

Searching For Radiance

Glowing sophistication sprawled
     across the darkened sphere.
Counterfeit light shining below
     the misleading blackness.

Electric illusions can never satisfy.
     Worldly disillusionment,
passing away like neon vapor seeping
     out our faulty arguments.

Souls walking on indefinite concrete,
     searching for the perceptible intangible
glory beyond their horizon;
     the relevant unknown radiance.

 

Dark Points Of Light

They wanted to be points of light,
     so they were cast down;
angels scattered on the floor of creation.

Counterfeit radiance shimmering

     
in their own darkness;
coloring a copy of the glory,

     
subtly tinted an acceptable hue;
directing people to look down

     
at the shadows they cast.

Still glowing in the night
     they are elated,
leading others to believe,

     
that they out shine the heavens.

 

Red Dawn
To Karen Jacobs

Cold and passionate as the dawn,
you could come as red skies of a winter morning.

And you wonder about the storm
in my eyes?

Mocking beauty behind grey veils,
stretched out in front of your glowing face;
the chill of your breath reminding me of stinging words.

I might enjoy your rain.
I still might find it refreshing,
and we might not notice our tears.

 

Annual Memories
To Melissa Hardy Germann

Old and faded images leave me
exposed to their colors.
Once vivid and bright, memories are now
dull and drab.

Their frozen smiles were never really
warm and inviting, but youth thinks it knows luster
as definite and sharp.

Age knows more about truth,
knowing the pictures were only hollow frames;
simple appearances, but only the border
of adolescence before adulthood.

Recollections are now crumpled and creased,
as they should be.
I’ll bet her face has a few lines,
although we never laugh as the pages turn,
towards the middle.

 

Makkot and Charoset

In order to enjoy the fourth cup,
     soon I have to pour out the second.
Once again, like my life before,
     I stand at the table to take tribulation’s bitter herbs,
prepared to run out my door in the morning.

Indignation dipped in the salt of fresh tears,
     I still ask the same question I did as a child,
and, once again my Father gives me the answer,
     so why should this night be any different?

On all other nights we do not dip even once,
     but on that night we dipped twice, and now,
          once again,
I also dip into the world’s mortar
     these slaves work with,
in order that we may taste sweet restoration,
     in the end.

 

Broken Jars of Promised Children

Moses vanished out the exit
     and proceeded back in,
while time started running out.

He points to the same door

     
as the one before.
This time, crossing the tier’s threshold
     into his battered homeland,
as God’s fallen religion elevates their temple,
     before they sacrifice their blood.

Yet a new church weeps at the foot
     of the rock they rejected,
for prostituting herself with
     humanity;
now pulling paper petitions from within
     the gaps of their soul’s hard stones,
the last remaining
wall of theirs to crumble;
     treasuring these prayers from their heart,
hiding them in jars of clay,
     some buried on the mountain
‘neath the olive trees.

So costly and broken, a fragrant perfume
     soon to be poured out;
the essence of pure worship, filling the world.

 

Fallen Sparrows will Take Flight

In these last days, God whispers
     in the sparrow’s ear a new song,
and many proclaim it from the rooftops.
In the darkness He croons as they
     gaze at the midnight moon,
and the lyric and melody will not be silenced
     on the final day.

Many will be sold for a pretty penny
     and locked up in steel cages,
yet they know their
souls are worth a higher price,
     and they will never deny
the One who gave them wings.

Do not fear fallen sparrows.  Some
     of you will never land,
but you will soar like eagles,
     beyond the clouds.

Uncommon Frequency

A pulsar, with a radio signature all her own,
     
hums to the melodies of the star-songs.
A solo voice amidst the ambience of space.

String theory vibrates;
     perfect pitch
in tune with her notes.

God’s wave displaced her,
     as it passed between us.
In moments, she was the farthest point,
     in my night sky.

I gave her up for heaven’s glory,
     but still hear her serenade the evening,
and light my dreams,

     
singing, in the dark.

 

Renewal Through A Different Rock

Her phrases are on a new track
     but she came out of this new age,
where the black carbon of the world
     is copied and compressed into crystal confusion.

A life that didn’t really shine
     because it was holistically fractured,
although the structure seemed to repeat indefinitely,
     in a few directions;
logic being a geometrical arrangement of points.

The harmonic disturbances of life

     
were eventually focused,
healing her through, The Rock of Ages.

 

Cross Stitch

When life had begun
     I was woven and spun,
but for whatever reason,
     we grasp at strands
          for things we don’t understand,
and I came unraveled and undone;
     fragile material lying there.

A bundle small and a gift
     unappreciated for itself,
pulled apart and strung tightly
     with loose ends;
frayed and afraid.

One day You threaded Your needle,
     and started to sew a design
in the cloth I thought was
     discarded.
The cross stitch began to hold me together,

     
and I’m starting to realize,
the pattern of the patchwork,
     will be beautiful.

 

Life Beneath The Stack

No longer able to wrestle with the angels,
     I’ve left behind the traces of who I’ve been
beneath stagnant momentum in the lanes

     of metropolis.

The existence of life’s interchange
     was four levels above reality,
motionless in the rush.

Beneath this,

     
amid the pillars of society,
the cracked concrete of my being
     imitated the insincere ignorance above,
there, truth’s messengers still sleep,
     dreaming, of heaven.

 

Flashes Of Lightning
To Lisa Free

Flashbacks crack my memory.
Yesterdays brake my present
into a fractured future.

Truth flickers in the dark.
Instants of reality spark and light
the blackness.

Retention of dreams cloud my sky,
and slip over the night horizon;
recollections of mist I breathe
slipping in and out of hollow spaces,
inside.

 

College Examination
To Lisa Free

We were friends, not yet lovers.
     Sitting couched in youth,
so close, but I couldn’t cross
     the two inches left between.

Memories of the dark;
     black tresses soft and smooth,
          always out of reach,
above passionate red

     
covering your heart,
leaving love, to my imagination.

Feelings were hidden under
     the threads of our conversation;
soft words of colored emotion
     I had touched upon,
and thought, you never felt.

 

Elektra had Never Come from Heaven

Lightning had never
     struck her history.
An unreal reality where the light of love
     had never ignited her dim society.

She had fallen, although
     she had never come from the heavens.
Her nightmare had annihilated
     paradise;
a past clouded in a violent atmosphere
     of ethereal poverty.

She was only mythology visualized
     in her world,
and although others had flashed
     in my darkness,
she was never, a spark in my dreams.

Until in the midst of our storms,
     my prayer actually transformed
our imaginations, and a miracle
     corrected the paradox,
so our worlds became the same,
     and she awakened my sky.

 

Hidden Track

She demonstrated the meaning
     
of a love song.
A lyric of soft and gentle tones
     swaying amongst the moment.

In accord with my deepest pain she sang
     the harmony of empathy,
behind my verse that was aching,
     as I tried to hide between uneasy rhyme.

We stood at my door until the measure
     ended and closed.
It was a tune,
     I could never compose.

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