WHOSE WOODS?

WHOSE WOODS?

after R. F.

He doesn’t tell if it was a newcomer

who didn’t understand about hunting,

or a local curmudgeon with a grudge

who posted the woods along the road.

But he made a promise to himself,

and one dark and snowy night

near the end of deer season,

he drank a few cups of tea,

saddled his horse,

and set out to make things right.

When he got to that lonely place,

he slid off the horse, and in the most

basic way he knew, he made 

the lovely woods his own again.

 

 

I know I’m not the first person to have this thought.

ADVENT, 11

ADVENT

 

11.

     John 6: 16-71

 

So the flesh profiteth nothing, doth it?

And the work of God is belief?

 

They are still in the storm, John Gospeller:

children wizened with hunger,

wrecked by bombs and fires,

blinded with tear-gas,

sickened by water and air.

And you say

God’s work is belief?

 

Oh yes, John, I am

 murmuring against your Jesus.

How dare you condemn the Pharisees?

At least their rules were clear.

ADVENT, 10

ADVENT

 

10.

   ~John 6:1-14

 

Why multiply loaves and fishes if

your Jesus disparages miracle?

 

If he was sent from heaven only

to teach the elect, why make him

 

show off to the crowd?  And

worse—why have him

 

set up these expectations?

Bread does not increase,

 

fishes decrease because

of the hope for miracle

 

that does not come no matter

how hard the believing.

 

And what are we

among so many?

YOUR TURN

YOUR TURN

You locked the door,

put your hand over our mouth,

ground against us.

 

Now we have many doors,

and they are all open.

We have a voice

 

and we are not ashamed.

You thought to grind us small

but together we are bigger

 

than you can imagine.

Truth does not need bluster and shout.

It is your turn to be afraid.

Winter Prompt #26: Ripped Paper

RIPPED PAPER

In memory of Ursula K. Le Guin

Winter Prompt #26

Tear it all up—

old bills and tax returns, bank

statements, stock certificates,

manuals and guarantees.

            But don’t stop

there. Tear up all the useless

books: archaic sciences, outdated

histories, smug theologies,

the whole thick body

of masculine pronoun,

life as battle,

possession as the highest good.

CLOSETS

CLOSETS

. . . open every closet in the future and evict

all the mind’s ghosts. . .

~Hafiz, trans. Daniel Ladinsky

Some closets are full

of sentimental things that mattered once:

toys and photographs, letters, old poems.

The ghosts tiptoe around the dusty boxes;

their bony toes rattle on the floor.

The ghosts moon over a ragged doll,

caress a tattered book.

Other closets are stuffed with

things of the mind, things of the heart:

things I might have done,

things I might have made,

people I might have loved.

The ghosts shake their powdery heads.

Ah, they whisper, your precious past.,

so sad, so sweet, so—passing.

 

The ghosts are not so easy to evict.

They cajole, they whine,

touch all my soft spots.

They look like my mother,

my dead sister,

the men who came so close.

They say they remember

all the stories I have to tell,

so how can I send them away?

When I look fierce at them,

they weep.

 

You are future ghosts!  I scream,

You are not the past,

you are not even memory, 

but fear of memory and its distortion.

You are not keepsakes, but anticipation of loss.

You are anxieties of times to come, 

you cover my pasts with corruption,

you haunt my futures with regret.

Be gone!

 

The ghosts whimper, they cringe.

I stamp my feet, wave my broom.

They diminish.

They flutter away like ragged moths.

The future becomes nothing but itself

and all my things, nothing but things.