When Children Raved

When children raved in warrior’s paint

and danced, like David, sans restraint

– when poets sailed from distant shores

– when lambs lay down to lions’ roars

– when old wounds healed and were no more

– when sinners turned at once to saints,

and hearts grew strong by growing faint

– in some miracle hour when the moon was mad,

hence insane men were growing sane –



I saw a sight sublime, a dream had:

A fairy queen danced forth cross a stormy plain

upon a single subtle drop of summer rain,

and stood before me with a curtsy and a smile.

Her form was beauty flawless: beauty without guile.


She stood there like a gift, defying explanation.

Her skin was lily like, and dyed with pink carnations.

Her eyes were colored oceans with depths for miles, and miles:

eyes soft kissed by gentle wind, misty, mysteriously mild.

With delight I gazed on she, like some astonished child;

with curiosity she answered, at first and for awhile:

as if I were a creature, new, and strange, and wild;

as if I were a riddle sent forth to beguile.

Midst curious conjecture, she made her decision:

at last, her face flushed red with recognition;

she tossed her hair in a manner kind and coy –

“If I am a girl,” she said with startled joy,

and held me like a vision,

“then you must be a boy.”

Room

Room, to breathe,

think, feel, grieve.

Room to stay,

– or else, to leave.
Room to say, to play, to pray.

Room to doubt, and to believe.

Room to take, and to receive.

Room, to lie quietly in the grass, 

and not think about the past;

Room, also, to remember; and room, to forget.

Room, to count losses; to regret.

Room to be forgive; to cancel, and to pay, debts.

Room to set aside demands,

and slumber in the shade.

Room, to escape hard hasty aches

for worlds of sleepy dreams.
Room, bursting at the seams.

There's room there;
room to lay aside your cares.
Room, there, room up to the sky:
room to laugh, and room to cry.

Room there, where travelers walk on waves,

skip on stormy lakes,

and recline upon the breaks.

Room there, where, every savior's saved

who died for other's sakes.

Room there, where, like everwhere,
the ogres marches make

-- but there, the sleepers never wake.

Room, a room is free at last.

Room to think

about the future and the past.

Room to plan my days,

or scan my ways,

praise my wins,

confess my sins.

Room: the space for grace.

There is room, if you will.

Room to feel

the joy and the pain.

To count my losses and my gains.

Room, to exult in hope;
Room, to cut losses, and and cope.

Room, a thousand miles across.

Room to grieve;
room; reprieve for loss.

Room to weep, and moan, and tear

my clothes all into tatters.

Room to be now, and beware.

Room to feel frightened,

but not scared.

Room now –

room to care, or not to care.

Room falls through my hands

like a sieve.

So much room.

Enough to grow, to know,

to live.

Lightning Bolts Colliding

My girl, I looked over the edge of the earth,
and I saw lightning bolts colliding,
and tears falling like rain,
and the women of Jerusalem, bent down,
picking up the shards of the promised land,
and I said to myself --

"We are headed there."
And, I suppose you saw that same vision,
and your heart secretly broke,
and then you tried to close your eyes,
and look back at me for some reassurance.

My eyes, however, were gazing at you,
and beyond you,
and I loved you too much to lie.

Distant Discography

I gave myself to the world
on a silver platter.
I played myself to the world,
like a song, on repeat, with a melody discrete,
but words that mean: words that matter.

Then, I waited on needles and pins for an answer
to the musicality of myself;
the unkind world treated me
like a record on a shelf:
out of style; scuffed with indignity.

I played myself louder;
they played me less and more
until my own song was, even to me,
a burdensome bore.
I became, even to to me, distant discography.

"hello."

She said hello, I play the cello,
I like to wear yellow,
and I live a crazy life,
always wanted to be someone's wife,
to be Mrs. somebody.
I like to go out, scream and shout,
but I'm also a homebody.

I like to wear yellow,
and dance in the moonlight,
and run through sprinklers.
I will tell you the truth here,
but to tell you the truth dear,
I am, oh, um, not so sincere.

My Christmas

My doubts turned sudden to surety:

false fears, to confidence.

Your true eyes were a cure to me:

the past’s sickling, long hence.

Affections flourished, undesigned;

true friendships blossomed. unelected.

The Sun on varied virtues shined

like dawn on night beauty new detected.
I found goodnesses unsought: unexpected.

Your enchanting beauty grows upon inspection.

My feelings have grown upon reflection:

the logical end of your beauties reason;

the welcome arrest of my hearts treason.

With all around within decay, you were my perfection.

You were my Christmas in a cold, dark, season.

The Fire Walker

I am the dark side grace;
I am the last long embrace:
the smile that wipes that smile off your face.
I am the doer, not the talker.
I am the fire walker.

I was born, under a blood moon,

at one second past high noon,
on a dark and stormy night,
in the coldest winter to date,
a child of fearsome fate --
Born, to love, and knowing love, to hate.
Born, early; I could no longer wait.
Born, early, to tell you: you are late.

Born, the last page of the book
you never got around to reading.
Born, the warning you shook,
and never got around to heeding.
Born, the chance you took --
the chance you never should not have taken --
born, the vengeance of mercy forsaken:
the judgment that slumbered, awakened.
Friend, you are fond of debating;
I was born to end debate,
and I'm here to clear my books.
You stand, on the road, a crook;
I was born to make straight.

I was born to smash the locks,
and deliver captives from their stocks.
Born: to heal the one who heals;
to slay the one who kills;
to smite the wolf who wills
to prey upon the flock.
Born, to stand stern, like a rock:
to keep time, like a clock --
until the world again grows still,
or, perchance, unto until,
I fall upon the field.
Born, to die until you die, and I am living still.

I am the dark side grace;
I am the last long embrace:
the smile that wipes that smile off your face.
I stalk the night stalker.
I am the fire walker,
the doer – not the talker.
The time for talking has passed.
I am the question you asked.

I was the past, the present, and future;
you are the cut, and I am the suture.
I was the deed, and the doer;
the distance you cannot endure;
the promise, awaited, made sure.
You are the muddled refrain
who binds words into shackles insane;
I am the definition of words made vague,
the clarity; the meaning made plain.
I am the man who plagues the plague,
and the man who finds the cure.
You hoped I was myth; hoped, in vain;
I have come to purify the pure,
and you, my friend, are the stain.

I have thought about you;
I advise you, my friend, to think about me.
Whatsoever you see, I foresee;
wheresover you go, there I'll be.
I have thought about you;
you dismissed me, again and again,
as rumor, a distant whisper in the wind.
I have thought about you, friend.
You should think about me;
you should think about your end.

I am the doer, not the talker.
I stalk the night stalker;
I am the fire walker,
and whereso I walk, the fire falters;
you dreamed, in your dream was a vision:
I am that shadow you hold in derision

The time for talking has passed.
I am the question you asked.
I came, not to talk, but to do;
I came, and I'm coming; I'm coming for you.

St. Valentines Day

Dressed in red, like red wine,

she was all valentine.

I saw – too late to see –

which hand struck me,

and brought me to my knees.

It was St. Valentine’s day;

she was dressed all in red

like a bottle of wine,

and my momma said,

she was all valentine.

Dressed in red, like red wine,

she was all valentine;
she stood before me like a story
I had read, but not believed,
and I sighed deep, relieved
to know that I would not be alone.
She stood, by a yellow sky outlined,
as weighty drops of light fell like stones
and lit her face, then mine.
She was dressed in red, like wine,
and she was all valentine.

***

I was walking in an alley,

and she was walking

close, right beside me,

smiling and laughing, singing our song.

The moon above was passing

into the womb of dawn;

my hair was wet and white;
my feet, bold and light;
my heart, full and strong –
when with her, I was a King,
and she, like unto a queen –

I was forever young,

squinting in dashes of daylight

as she kissed goodbye the night –

everything was wrong;

everything was right.

I saw shadows behind me,

and lied about my youth;

I heard voices before me, shrill, frightening –

but not quite their meaning –

because, when with her,

my world was always spinning

too fast for listening;

too fast to tell the truth.

I heard too late to hear it;

I feared too late to fear it.

I thought this was our song, 

but I knew – all along –

you can change the music, but not the lyrics.

I saw the sun above, and read it;

but it was easy to forget it –
to every question, she was the answer.

I believed, with love’s faith, in her.

Perhaps, she knew; perhaps, even, I did too,
but neither ever said it,
and I could not admit it.

I remembered it was day,

and was surprised – I was not tired.

Her eyes turned sudden grey,

then blue, like friendly fire,
and blazed like diamond's glistening.

I started to say something,

but looked over, and found nothing

interested her; she was not listening.

I felt, at my back, a cruel wind

mingled with her whispers,

and I asked absently, “What am I doing here?”

and I recall, just then, she yawned –

and then, right then, I knew – a night was gone

that would not come again;

a dawn had come that would not ever end;

I saw her smile, but she did not see me,

and the Sunshine made her sleepy.

I heard, behind us, some men;

their very breath was threatening.

Before I knew it, we were surrounded;

their taunts in the alley resounded –

and without thought of life or health,

I started fighting – for her, for us –
for hope, and love, and trust –

but never for myself.

My life concerned me little;
she concerned me, little else.

I fought, and bled, and fought more,

and the only thought that filled me head

was, “Is the girl safe? Will she be well?”

And there, of a sudden, I fell

in a puddle of Sunshine, like one dead,

and I remembered what my momma said:

her hands were red, like red wine, 

and she was my valentine.

I saw too late to see

the hand that struck me,

but her hands were red, like red wine, 

and she was all valentine.

Ghost

CWK

He is a ghost now; he is a ghost – how?

He lives in ghost town,

and his life merry goes round –
and round – and round – and round –
but his days are in distance drown,
and his songs: music minus sound.
He is ghost; he is a ghost, how.

He is the flip of the coin;
His life is unlived, unexamined, unknown:
like a battle before him, raging, unjoined;
like a seed in hand, waiting, unsown.
His life the one decision he can't postpone
– but he defers deciding.
He beholds his days – from without – 
like trains, in passing; he is not riding.
He holds his life like a doubt
that crushes resolve in a rout.

Truth is to him a castle unkind –
perched 'pon a battlement, with doubt redoubt –
not worth the seeking, with nothing to find.
The world is for him a riddle too stout:
a question he runs round-about:
a knot, not worth the untying;
a mystery, not worth the prying.

His life is the lie he repeats without lying,
with supernal wit, and impeccable timing;
His life is a tear – but, he is not crying:
a fight –  but, he is not fighting;
a court – but, he believes not in trying.

And his path is by riddles beset:
there – but not there – yet; yet
descending up, ever darting down;
dying beggar to wear a crown;
selling his name to buy renown;
he is a ghost now; he is a ghost, how.

He recalls what he cannot forget;
holds what he must soon lose;
risks, but he never makes bets.

His deeds are cold and removed.
His days: foretold, in righteous reprove.
His faith: in proof whate'er he approves;
his acts he enacts with due dying,
then regards them with telescope, sighing,
like passing planes, soaring 'fore his eye
into the far flung hands of heavy sky,
out of sight, and sighting;
he knows the pilot, but he is not flying.
He is an autobiography, but he is not writing.

He is a ghost now; he is a ghost – how?

He lives in ghost town,

and his life merry goes round,
and his days are in distance drown.
He listens – but hears not a sound;
he walks – his toes touch never ground.
He is a ghost now; he is a ghost, how.

How Can One Blush?

CWK

*Credit to George Sand for the idea and phraseology of this poem.

Once my heart was captured,
I stopped, staggered, like a man in a sad story
surprised by a turn of comic rapture.
Straightway, raison was shown the door:
deliberately, and with a sort of frantic joy,

and I was the man who was once again the boy;

full to the brim with life: life worth living,

and I remembered everything, and more.
I accepted everything, I believed everything,
without struggle, without suffering,
and the song awoke, and then the poetry,
and for the first time since the flood came,
I found myself composing, and singing,

and I could feel,within, the symphony:
a new song. And I had a new name.

The Restless regrets, I framed
behind dark glass, in cardboard bins,
and stored them in the attic of a former friend.
Armed with my new name, without false shame,
I became an innocent; free of crimes; free of blame.

My heart raced, and I felt freedom like before,

but a freedom greater after a slavery endured;

I was true as true, and forever sure;

I was busy, but never rushed,

and I was rich for being poor,

and happy, so happy, I might have blushed --
But, how can one blush for what one adores?

The Poet and The Man

CWK

A man sees a bridge – but the bridge is unseen.
A poet sees the heavenly connection between
two cleaved earthen plots,
A poet sees the bridge what God wrought
betwixt two seeming – I say seeming –
disjointed worldly tracts.

Man sees – but perceives not.
But the poet sees the connection between
two cleaved earthen plots.
A poet sees the bridge what God wrought
betwixt two seeming – I say seeming –
disjointed wordly tracts.

Poets eat bread; men will feast on leaven.
Where men see a train, on its tracks,
a poet sees two lines exact

stretching, like a child, toward heaven:
with the train, ever at his back.

Poets see the connection between men,
and counts every man a brother.
Poets the connection within men,
and draw one line to another.
A man sees the deed, but not the act –
the appearance, not the fact;
the show, but not the play –
and smiles with admiration.
A poet sees the deed to heart attached –
the shop, not the display –
and rips the playbill in frustration,

while men stand by in dim dismay.

Men conceive a world with chaos striven.
Poets see the peace where war is given.
Men lie, by oaths, forsooth,
but a poet feels the lie that bites like tooth.
and builds, and wields, a bridge by truth.
Men cover the bridges without within,
but poets uncover all the bridges hidden.

A man sees a bridge – but the bridge is unseen;
a man sees – but perceives not.
and conceives the reunion of all things,
and so while men are weeping,
the poet still finds songs to sing.

Poets see beyond seems to seams
to find a world intact.
Men see a world in disunion asunder
filled with disparate facts:
part from every part dissected.
Poets see a world connected;
poets see a world intact,
within a unity of wonder,
with myth and meaning intersected,
toward meaning directed.

A man sees what he came to see;
a poet sees what he sees:
what was, what is, and what may be.
Men pick flowers; poets consider the lilies.
Men count seeing as believing,
and ever doubt what poets believe,
but a poet knows believing is seeing –
and, by faith, his vision receives.

The Difference Between A Hero and A Villain

CWK

The villain sees injustice –
the mighty crushing the powerless –
but believing himself only acted on,
like a still tree, by the wind blown,
he decides what is is what is.
And so he mildly reacts,
and lies helpless as a fact,
apologizing for his weakness.

The hero sees the same,
and bears unto himself the blame.
And deeming himself an actor –
not so much a fact, as factor –
he acts, like a wind, constant moving, never slack,
and turns justice into fact.

Injustice is what the villain views;
it is because it is – just because –
injustice is his justice: history, his law.
Justice is what the hero pursues
because – because – it is his cause.
The villain speaks of justice,
but his deeds are cold and rusty –
for just he never was.
The hero acts, and ever justly;
justice is what the dust man does.

Herein is the difference

between the hero and the villain:

one man is the tree;

the other man, the wind.

Both decide – but the hero has will.

The hero moves, the villain's still.

The villain is chained; the hero, free.

The villain is what he sees;

the hero is what he may be.

The villain becomes what he was;

the hero is what the hero does.

Herein is the difference

between the hero and the villain:

both take blows, but the hero gives.

Both live, and die, in strife;

but the villain lives – 

while the hero leads – a life.

No Where There

CWK

Which came first –

the French, or the American, Revolution?

Don’t up look the answer.

Stop, and think

before you search

for absolution.

Every person I've ever asked

this question 

has been wrong

in assigning the appropriate order. 

Why is that? 

Why know we not what came after,

or even what

came before?

We are neither

last, nor first.

We have no history; 

we are nomads 

in the universe; 

nothing happened before us; 

nothing is going to happen after, either.

Our past causes us to hang our heads;

we have dim visions of atrocities

in distant dismal cities,

but we seem to have been created

ex nihilo, out of nothing, 

out of nowhere.

There's no where, there.

Do we not realize

there can be no fruit

if there never was a seed;

there can be no listening

without a voice to heed;

there can be no doubt

unless there stands a creed.

If we do think of the past, 

we think of it as a mass

of irrelevant data,

little connected to us except

that our ancestors did dire deeds.

We got an inheritance; 

it is moral debt

that sometime interest bleeds,

and sometime poems reads,

but ever to our set,

and never to our needs.

Meanwhile, still, to this day still,

our evils are not faced honestly,

nor uprightly.

Just as tragic: 

our former glory is unknown,

and taken rather lightly.

Our future causes

us to scratch our heads;

we have no goal,

and tomorrow is already past.

History is going nowhere, 

and fast.

Starless Night

CWK

I just heard a horse bray in the distance.
I'm awake now, and suddenly aware
of the music of the Southland:
dogs barking to a back up band 
of loudly chirping crickets —
God knows, I love this place.
I can feel a cold and soothing (albeit biting)
breeze across my hands as I type.
These days, even the friendliest wind
in this world seems to have a bite.
There are no stars out tonight.
It's cloudy. I am surrounded by pine trees.

I can’t remember a single cloudy night
from my childhood; back then, 
every sky was clear; every night was starry.
How bright were those nights,
and I was full of life.

I remember lying, with my friends,
on our backs, on hay bales,
and staring for hours at a billion beams
of steady stunning starlight
(each beam overflowing with brightness).
My friends laughed and talked in lightness
all around me with voices, like the stars,
unclouded, and clear, and bright.
I remember the girl I liked,
lying near me, night after long night,
under a full moon of opportunity —
but I recall that I lacked the requisite
courage to say very much to her.
Back then, I cursed my cowardice,
but now, upon reflection, I understand,
there was something noble in my reticence;
in some ways, the boy was the better man.

That seems a long time ago:
a different life, really — I hardly feel
the same person. I'm not.
The years — they have changed me.
It occurred to me just now: I am
a different person — not merely in degree —
different entirely: different in species.
How that boy became this man
is harder to see, by far,
than any distant star.

Looking back, I have not a doubt,
I could have never planned all this out —
not in my worst nightmares;
not in my wildest dreams. I could never
have planned the miraculous maze of my life.
I have, at times, looked back, nearly despairing,
and wished for a way to undo,
not just a thing or two,
but every single everything.

I am looking upward now, looking for a star,
but the sky is blurry with clouds,
and the stars seem to be, from me, hiding.
I am looking still, looking harder;
still, no stars, and still, I am looking upward —
looking, upon a less starry sky,
than those of my childhood,
but with greater resolution —
and still I am looking at the night sky
and hoping for a single beam,
like a watchman, I am stalking the dark,
for one lone star.

I found one. It's a yellow, sickly, sad
star in the Northeastern sky. One star, dim,
but there it is, and I found it.
(If you are reading this, remember,
God works everything together
for good for those who love Him).
That one star is hope,
and pale as it is, I celebrate it.
It is a sign, long awaited, and sorely anticipated:
starlight has not forever faded,
and the Creator has not ceased His devotion
to me, or to planetary motion;
there is, after all, still one star.

I have to trust the rest of the night sky
to God, and cling with all my heart
to my one yellow star.
And I shall.
I have suffered a staggering steady diet
of skies starless and benighted —
but they were my school, and in the end,
from them, I learned to be content.
In that, I surpass the impatient
boy I left behind beneath the shining firmament.
In that, at least, I am a better man than him.
I have learned — when light and hope are dim —
one star is enough.
Now, a single star can make me sing;
I would not change a thing.

I wonder what happened to the girl I liked;
sometimes, I worry for her;
she worries for me, I'm sure.
I wish I could tell her I'm doing alright,
and thank her for our starry nights.
If I could, I would tell her 
about my one yellow star,
and I would tell her the man
is glad to have once been that boy.
If I could, I would take her hand
and tell her, even after all the hard
and starless years, the boy
is glad now to be this man.
I would tell her that I have been
by heaven blessed with sweet content;
If I could, I would tell her it only
takes one star to turn a dark night starry.
I would tell her not to worry:
a single star can make me sing;
I would not change a thing.

            

For Grace, A Verse

CWK

I shall for grace compose a verse.

For, I am, in second chances, first.

There is no reason in me for Love Divine:

Love is the source; Love the design.

Love is the reason for love dispersed;

love comes to the best, as to the worst

as a gift, by Free Grace signed.

I shall for grace compose a verse.

And when the rain shall call

on a day lacking an umbrella,

and lacking sore in shelter

– I will not be appalled,

nor curse the rain for The Fall,

but I shall praise My All, in all.

And, I shall dance,

to the love lay of the parched land.

For, the soil dost not disdain
the visits of the rain,

but ever greets her, with sweet refrain,

and heart in hand.

With heart in hand,

so shall I stand.

I am, in second chances, first.

I shall for grace compose a verse.

New Wine

CWK 

When I think of this blank paper,

I think of only of what will be written later,

and I am filled with serene surprise.

This paper, though blank, is full in my eyes.

There is so much to space to fill,

and by God’s grace, this white blank will

be consumed with Christmas expectation,

and one day be black and red, lying in prostration

before my little pen and my ready fingers.

And I will be a Shepherd like Israel’s singer.

And I will be the Psalmist, and I will sin confess,

and then praise, and my God bless –

because isn’t confession another praise?

And isn’t praise another confession: a lay

to the Almighty who rejoices in grapes, love,

and bread as if sacramentally endued from above

with wondrous meaning because they flow

from the hand of one Who is, Who was, Who knows?

I write on this page with purple grape delight

because in my heart there is fruit of the vine;

my words, black in color, shall rise up to fight

because He who makes well will make a new wine. 

Flood Above, Below, Within

CWK

O my God, my soul is cast down within me. therefore will I remember You from the land of Jordan, and Herman, and from Mount Mizar/ Deep calls unto deep at the noise of Your waterfalls: all Your waves and Your billows are gone over me/ Yet the Lord will command His loving kindness in the day time, and in the night, his song shall be with me, and my prayer will be unto the God of my life.

Psalm 42:7-10 

Everything around the Psalmist

was like an ocean tossed with tempest—

his future unsure, his past troubled.

His sorrows, like Job’s messengers,

came not in singles, but doubles:

each following fast on another’s heel;

new news brought, worse news still.

His griefs ebbed wave upon wave

as he kept exiled camp in crawling caves,

and roamed withal a destination:

less the King now, more the slave;

less the wiseman, more the knave.

No longer man of reputation,

but an unknown none cared to know.

He was from nowhere, with nowhere to go.

Then, outside his cave, he heard,

the fretful song of a passing bird

in flight to ‘scape the dark'ning sky.

David, dyed in wilderness, knew this lay:

he had heard it many times before,

in younger, brighter, days:

“A flood is on the way.”

Next second, the sky opened like a door,

and flung rainfall fierce and fast

as if arrows meant to pierce earth's floor:

as if heaven and earth were now at war.

The river Jordan ascended the pass,

and forced David up a mountain path,

until, drenched and dreary, he stood, at last

upon the highest peak of Mizar —

never had he stood so high; never had he felt so low.

With flood above, and flood below;

flood above, and flood below.

David's heart protested against him;

the deep outside called to the deep within him.

His conscience roared, in time with thunder,

and David bowed with fear and wonder,

and thought of what he once was,

and where he once had been,

and where he might be, right then,

if not for lies and crimes and sin.

And he concluded that he was,

more than all his foes 'mong men,

his own worst foe, his least best friend.

He was the fount, the source, the cause

of the storm without, and the storm within.

He had wandered into dens of sins
he had once condemned with his own tongue;
he had seen all; seen better men
like Jonathon, his friend, descend to early end,
and lesser men, survive;
he knew none were righteous: none —
but the best die young,
and he was still alive.

Melancholy memories to David called,

but he was saddened, most of all, 

by remembrance of the sacred shrine

that offered nourishment divine,

wherein his soul had often dined

with the multitude that kept holy day;

he was, from that shrine, a long, long way.

Then, David remembered a promise

he'd oft read in the law of Moses,

"The Lord, The Lord, compassionate, gracious,

abounds in loving kindness."

And love like lightning lit his darkened mind;

and he felt, beyond the storm, sunshine.

He reasoned then on love Divine:

He saw his sins ascend like mountains,

but he saw grace, from an everlasting fountain

rising like a mighty wave, billow upon billow,

and flooding the world with mercy sublime,

quenching his guilt, consuming his crimes.

His stormy soul grew sudden calm.

'Twas then the Psalmist wrote this Psalm:

O, My God, all your billows and waves

are gone over me, forced me from my cave,

and left me drenched in storms of woe,

with flood above, within, below.

Yet, I remember, I remember this:

The Lord will command His loving kindness

in the day time, and in the night, 

his song shall be with me.

And my prayer will be

unto the God of my life.

A Bridge Is

CWK

Here we are – standing
‘pon a bridge slightly slanting
south –  but, we are looking north.
I had not considered bridges before
this one started rocking back and forth;
henceforth, I shall consider them more,
and in a different light.
I shall dream of bridges in the night.

We stand, with wild wind whipped in our face:

against a rusted railing braced;
upon creaking wooden footpath;
by wind and gravity displaced:
counting on mirth to conquer math;
leaning forward; footsteps traced, retraced –
here we stand, in timid embrace –
like to fall, if not for grace.

A bridge is a shouting piece of space

which at once demands
a traveler take a step, or stand:
take a step , or choose right there to land;
flee, or else, be content, to be;
race, or else, erase; take grace, or else, disgrace;

As for my house, and as for me,

I chose to look life in the face,
and live in the world really real.
I decided to decide how I feel.

As for me, I chose to step, and not refuse

the roadway riddled ripe with clues
of adventures lining up in queues.
I chose laughter in spite of all bad news.
I chose to either win or lose.

I chose to heed the voice –

there is, my dear, always a choice.

I chose to step, if even then, and even when, in weary shoes.
I chose to step; I chose to choose.

I Will Tell You A Secret

by CWK

I will tell you a secret:

a secret sublime; like honey, sweet;

a secret, holy, like heaven,

but a secret, severe, like sin.

I will tell you a secret:

a secret wild willed, like a wind

that topples towers down;

but a secret, like the wind again, discrete:

for, it travels without sound.

I will tell you a secret.

I will tell you a secret:

a secret that gives, but steals;

a secret that lives, but kills.

A secret, like surgeon’s knife, that heals –

but, also like a knife, that cleaves.

Here is the secret

that you never thought would happen:

joy begins when men leave laughing,

and return, to God, to grieve.

Here is my secret,

and though you will not believe it,

I hope you will believe:

to go up, you must go down.

To go forward, you must turn around.

The way to speak is to listen.

The way out is the way in.

The way to climb is to descend.

The place to start is at the end.

For C.S. Lewis: Comfort Concerning The Loss of Your Wife

by CWK

A door slammed in your face,
and stood, stolid, and still.
You heard, echoing in the empty space
which she used to fill,
the sound of bolting and double bolting
on the inside. After that, only silence:
silence against silence revolting.
— and the finality was jolting.

Her loss left you lost
and frail; without her,
you grew pallid and smaller,
like a daisy after frost
which withers on the stalk.
The first week, you were so weak
you could hardly talk.
And you could only see, barely,
as through a dark glass, dimly.
You could not walk,
but like a drunk man, dizzy
from missing her,
you could only stagger
from place to place
and grace to grace.

You feared you would forget her:
the frame of her face;
the sound of her voice; her eccentricities;
the way her eyes shined with joy
when she was happy.

Single seconds passed like a year;
each day was, in it's own way, a small eternity.
You missed her, not as men miss women
but, like a drowning man, oxygen.

There was not, it appeared,
an ending to the grief;
it was ever at the start.
Not to be, it was clear,
a reunion for the pieces of your heart
which had been sundered and parted.
There was not — not there, not here —
enough suture in the galaxy
to sow up a wound
so wide, and deep, and great.
She left you too soon;
the doctor came too late.

You observed your grief, steadily
expanding in dark,
until it blotted out the stars,
and crushed you, without mercy,
like an ant beneath a mountain.
Famished by arid grief,
you scoured the world for a drop of relief —
but found: she only was your fountain.

***

Slowly, quietly, like snow-flakes
—like the small flakes that come
when it is going to snow all night
—little flakes of she and I —
our impressions, our selections, our affections —
settled down on the image of each other.

The real shape of she and I —
distinctly, and in union
— the shy secret shape —
was quite hidden in the end;
but such shape evinced
a change in us for the good, for good.
Apart, we were broken;
together, we began to mend.

In quick time, we two, became one,
and I began to see
that such blessed communion
makes of math a mockery;
her 1, plus my 1, was equal 3.

Now, there is no telling
where I begin, and where she ends;
her fingerprint is upon me, indelibly.
There was a communion of our essences,
by degrees — to the degree,
I feel her absence as a presence.

***

Last week, I found a single strand of her hair
in my old reading chair.
Afterward, I briefly went upstairs,
to finish some papers.
When I came back, an hour later,
I turned my study upside down,
looking for that strand of hair,
but it was no longer there.

I find myself fumbling in moonlight

for that single strand;
or else, some other strand of her.

I fear I have passed into a land
of shadows wherein there's only winter,
shorts days, and long nights,
with Christmas in sight.


I fear I'm losing her, and my mind.
I can't find.
I can't find her on the paths
she used to haunt.
I can't find her
in any spot on any map.
I look, and look, for her;
I can't find anything else to do.
I can't find.
I can't find anything to hang on to.

***

Once, near the end, I said, "Why must I feel?"

And she said, "Because you are real."

I said, "But, why must I feel pain?"
And she said, "Because you hope, and not in vain.
You feel because you are free:
because you love, and love remains."
She said, "Even in death, in death especially,
my love, love survives."
And I said, "But this is is killing me."
And she said, "No. It is proof you are alive."

Once, very near the end, I said,
“If you can — if it is allowed —
come to me when I too am on my death bed.”
“Allowed?!' she said,
“heaven would have a job to hold me,
and as for Hell, I'd break it in two to get to you."

"You will be there?"
"Yes," she said, "your eyes will close,
and you will pass into a restless repose,
much like sleeping,
and then, the stars will shake,
and you will realize, for the first time ever,
you are wide awake.
You will pass from Shadow Land
into a green and sunny clearing,
and hear a sound like church bells ringing.
And I'll be right there, and I will be weeping,
and I will be singing."