Posts for 2020 (page 58)

Oklahoma June Twenty-Three

The King stood up
from his throne…
his people cheered
when he mocked the peons.

His words
spilled out over the hordes
                 spraying them with a deadly mist of lies.

They cheered his insanity and
waved flags of ignorance then
went home to die.

The king prayed for them
with his upside-down bible and
                  mocked the soothsayers.

He will reign down on the world and
leave us with nothing but…

Who knows?

Tony Sexton

toes
gifted with grip–
innocent, dirtied bare feet
with tiny scrapes
climb the rough, oak bark
i feel Your presence
with my soles firm to
the soft, damp soil
from the sky’s weeping

knees
my shorts ride up
when i kneel to the ground
my body solid on
the sun-heated rock
something about this
is so childlike and vulnerable
as i bow down to You

waist
bending and folding
with sacred, gifted pleasure
Your name is said in whispers
like a secret
as my every movement
gives praise, glory, and beauty

fingers
where me and my lover
kiss so delicately
i offer rejoice to You
through my words
and my loving
and the way i touch
the pedals and the rain

lips
the numbness of Your touch
lingers like a storm
in the way i find rain
coating every surface like dew
all power is held
in this silence
and with it
peace finally
settles into my bones

For Me

Dearest LORD
Nothing is as deep as You
All of our knowledge, all of our power, all of our wisdom
All is surface
But you
You are my depth
My life, my soul
You are my heart, you see in me
And you see through me
Past my hurt, past my anger
Past that veil that keeps me from you at times
And that You tore for me that I am,
That I may know You always.

You rent those curtains
With all the might God gave You
You smote the demons – though it wasn’t You,
But in Your submission.
It was You Yourself Father
You rent the curtains
With all the strength You could muster and beyond
And they fall like lumps of clay
Or brittle twigs snapping in a breeze
Your meekness and submission did it
Your sensitivity, Your love did it…
For me…
For us….

issues
like stained rags with holes
you can’t throw away
everyone has at least one    

Fungus
Dead Man fingers creep
out of forests’ rotten woods
like a man’s digits

let’s re-write the bulletin so all are welcome;
let’s open up past orders
of worship  

we’ve come to the time of service
where decency commands change  

because i picture faces, spaces,
particular places of racism, in stores, on the street.
privilege presents itself in seeing racism in scenes,
not understanding it is the scenery  

my friend prays in a sanctuary of trees,
sings with a choir of song birds,
calls a familiar hello to chattering chipmunks,
feels seen in lush, breathing growth  

a place that is holy to us is often a locus
of stares and distrust for Black friends.
i can only imagine the challenge of seeking God’s peace
under the eye that would call you loiterer
before seeing you as fellow pilgrim.  

racism is setting-turned-character of the american story.
examine complicity—yes, whites have benefitted, even unintentionally.
it’s beyond time for intentional change, for futures to be re-written
before they repeat the past.  

our service must let live,
let flourish the holiness of others.

I tried so hard to be a girl,
Who didn’t burn the letters
Who didn’t smash the glass
Who learned to love better
Who behaved herself with class

Who clutched machine pressed coins
Who clutched an outstreched hand
Who clung to soft gold memories
Who fanned orange dying embers.

I burned into a woman fast,
Who grew tired of pretty burdens
Who grew quick to cut the fat
Who forced her nerves to deaden
Who required no eclat

Who boiled over, burning steam
Who boiled bones upon a stove
Who tore open life at the seam
Who lived a wild tale she wove.

Well, 
I ‘put my dog down.’
I ‘put him to sleep.’
I ‘put him out of his misery.’
I ‘showed him mercy.’
I ‘did the right thing.’

He was 17 and suffering. 

But I just can’t get past the fact that
I killed my dog.  

I don’t think I ever will. 

When did glass half full
turn into glass almost gone
for this optimist?

Mr. Stripey
Morgage Lifter
Cherokee Purple
a sharp knife
mayonnaise
thick   sliced   bread
toasted
kosher salt
red leaf
butter leaf
romaine
bacon grease spitting all over the kitchen
howling dog outside—smells
something—
hears the sizzle
scratches on the back door screen
you catch the toast as it pops up
baconlettucetomato

Need I say more?

Under a crescent moon, a woman and her young daughter
spin in gowns studded with stars. The mother combs dreams

from her hair. They break into blooms of green, orange, maroon.
Her long locks ripple out from her scalp—a golden flag, a wave

of light against inky air. Beneath their feet, a carpet of fallen stars
illume their way. A green-faced crone, skin scaly as a crocodile,

wags a crooked, bony finger, invites them closer. The mother soothes
her child’s cheek, chants a litany of constellations to dissolve evil

spells. Her lilting syllables shimmer a shield around them.