Tag Archives: identity

Passion of the Christ

Passion of the Christ

“Fifteen ” ,

” Sixteen ” ,

tears flowing like a tidal flood ;

” Again ! ” ,

” twenty-four ” ,

” twenty-five ” ,

blood coursing in scarlet rivulets seeping down ;

” Again ! ” ,

” thirty-one ” ,

” thirty-two ” ,

flesh flayed torn wounds open to the world ;

” Again ! ” ,

” thirty-eight ” ,

” thirty-nine ” ,

now sublime ineffable Grace subsuming all the hurt ;

and now ,

The Cross …

The evidence wasn’t in the nail-marks

that Thomas asked you to show him ,

it wasn’t in the tears that your Mother Mary shed,

it wasn’t in the arms of Joseph of Aramathea ,

nor in the crown of thorns upon your head ;

It wasn’t there when you walked upon the water ,

nor in the 5000 that your loaves and fishes fed ;

It’s by the promise of your Father

that Grace abounded ,

when at Calvary your blood was shed.



Each moment that passes by

is just like the moment yet to come,

that has already been and

is here with us again

until its time for it to go

and another arrives in

anticipation of yet one

more waiting its turn;

Though all moments

truth be told

are the same,

clones of clones of clones

camouflaged as “time”

so as not to appear

indifferent to our rather mundane desire

to see differences

appreciate variety;

After which we conclude

that all of it really is

just a waste of time.


There are memories
which even our dreams
can’t unlock,
and there are dreams
we’ve yet to have
that will fill our waking hours
with dread,
what of those dreams
that still evade us,
those of which we
only have memories of
and which we dare not
unlock from within
our dreams.

Tomorrow and

 Tomorrow and 

When we  meet  our Tomorrow 
when tomorrow meets us,
in that sublime  exchange 
mystery  and revelation 
knowing in part then knowing 
even as we are known,
Tomorrow  meets  us
even as we meet our tomorrow 
Revelation  itself is a mystery 
mystery a revelation ;
exchanging all our tomorrows 
for one single,
sublime moment

that remains forever

Mirth & Laughter

               Mirth & Laughter 
Shallow  shadows 
the steeper deeper
of the fading falling
tears of years
dripping dropping
like gasoline
onto the pyres
of our own making;
Over there,
the dancing fools
and their pipers 
whilst waiting to be paid
sold their souls for salt
in the impossible dark,
in the unreckoned nights,
consumed by their own
shallow shadows..


Silent as graveyards
the mornings pass by
in spectral rows
shunning the Sun
and shrouding the hours
with their indifference;
Corpulent time
weighed down by its
feasting on sloth,
its casual air of neglect 
suffused what joy
might otherwise
have preened its feathers
and stirred our imagination,
the one floundering 
in chains of disquiet

Urban Noir

                   Urban Noir

When the cold,cold knife of night

meets the warm,warm blood of day,

and the light is extinguished

at the tunnel’s end,

All we’d done wrong

turns out right

all that was right

is now wrong;

As the solitary Raven

pecks madly at

your window pane,

and clouds lose their silver lining

who then will be left

to tell us what words

need to be

in our song?

What Being A Good Samaritan Really Means

They threw his body onto the sidewalk,
sped off toward the Interstate;
he was still breathing
as they gathered,
he felt his pain
as they closed in;
an old man took the Rolex,
two winoes came to blows
a shoe apiece and managed to rip the pants,
the Hugo Boss jacket was too bloodied
for anyone to covet,
though small jealous hands ledgerdemained
an all too heavy wallet;
he was still breathing
as Cops came and drew chalk outlines,
taped off the street
ushered everyone away,
he was still breathing
when a Coroner’s ambulance came,
he heard strange distant voices confirm that
he was still breathing;
over at O’Malley’s Bar
the grifters and working stiffs
had something to talk about
before watching the game’s final quarter,
as the deaf bartender served them
some more “Boilermakers” he wondered if
he was still breathing.

A Tiny Poem of Disquiet

           A Tiny Poem of Disquiet

What if the words that you’re reading

somehow are changed and rearranged

by the time you get around

to reading this poem again?

Have they not altered subtly

even since you began reading?

Poems are not novels

where you have to turn a page,

though they do that by themselves

deceiving their readers into believing

that they are reading it

and not as is true the novel reading them;

But a poem,

surely not?

then again

what if the words you’re reading

never change?

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