MARVELS

Marvels

 

The old rugged cross

splinters and all

thorn in one’s side

festering

‘fore it let go.

Devoid of the deity

destined to be there,

simple sheep

beast

burdened.

 

1.

 

he used to imagine:

 

The Hulk.

Hues, shades

unable to see the forest

we walk among,

for that one

damnable

tree. Low-hanging

fruit, making all of paradise

one sticky situation.

Anger of the Father

flaming swords and all,

gamma-induced

mean streak,

counting to ten.

Commanded from the first

judge, jury,

and executioner,

throwing the Good Book at them.

Idle worship

of this,

that,

and the other

makes Him

green with envy

 

GOD SMITE!

 

His incredible wrath

setting sin upon his Son.

That day the sun,

stopped shining.

Veil torn in two,

yet this was but one of three.

 

2.

 

he used to imagine:

 

Spider-Man.

Nothing spectacular

or amazing

in appearance

that we should be attracted to Him.

Swinging in,

a man of sorrows

and acquainted with grief

your friendly neighborhood

Savior. “A menace!”

shouts J. Jonah Pharisee.

Suspended there, webs

hold our hero in place

until he nailed things down

got his story straight

all the world

and all the weight

 

“With great power comes great responsibility.”

 

3.

 

he used to imagine:

 

Vision, blinding

light

and sound–

a voice

disembodied.

Road to Damascus

neural pathways

synapses

flash

mental math

making leaps of faith

tinkered tin can,

less

than a man.

The 1s and 0s

do not compute

aligned

within the mind

and the soul

is but a stone

the builders rejected.

 

The weight of it

brought him to his

knees, dirtied

hurried, a hasty pace

placed

‘pon simple Simon

scuffs of dust

on shoes not yet walked

floorboards.

It shows in his own scars.

A walk in the park

Witch’s familiar

unlucky

black

cat in the hat

pushed from its perch

with a squeak and a lurch

giving Barry the evil eye

curses

a hiss, unmissed

amid circles

that speak in creaks

stifling ciphers

toeing translations

in shifting sand.

He sniggers

as the pounce

send the beasts bleating

retreating

in their sheepish ways

turning tail

leaving trails

droppings, like breadcrumbs

led ‘em.

Fairest

The mirror’s glamour

gloomy shade

reflected not

what he thought:

 

the sleep on the road, on the run

prisons of papier-mâché

monsters of men, martyrs

wearing crowns of thorns.

While the tales have all been told,

and the lies

behind the eyes, as

crow’s feet peck and hop

and four and twenty black birds

murmur across

dark waters

and oft-forgotten woods

where dreams once dwelt.

Cauldrons scald of stone soup

made with love by

those Bremen Town magicians

visions of beasts, eat

and as they feast, their eyes

on the throne of bones

dragged away by their own

evil desire and enticed

their animal natures, rut, rote

reign forever in this world

atop a hill of beans.

 

He forgets his face

until the next time he looks,

gazing at the grays

that weren’t there last time.

Homecoming

This predilection

to malediction

diseases, such as these, if it pleases:

mad cow

hog cough

chickensick

 

bold wives tales

in old folks’ tomes

three, the number

of your destiny.

wishes, fishes,

cowboy creamer

spoons and dishes.

 

the prophecy

naught but a fallacy

whispered in the wings

over moonshine

and dandelion wine

in our cups

under the table.

 

the forest council

all but forgotten

spun from straw

the golden fleece

fooled, pulled

the wool over our eyes

thrown

to the wolves in sheep’s clothing

TTOWBW: Last 4th of July: Plan of Attack (NaPoWriMo17 3/30)

20170403_131712Founder’s Mound on the common green

where heads of state still sleep

rings of concrete and of trees

be careful where you step

Circles kept them safe at bay

from rolling over in their graves

gazes baleful, turned their way

should the two dare aim to misbehave

Stood stock-still as ceme’try stones

as the two boys hurried past

the Red Eyes rose to their full height

to the old rules they held fast

Water from a Stone

The stone they rolled away

the same that the builders rejected

served, as a foundation

built upon this rock.

Carried here

buried here

interred, with naught a word.

 

And the boy did not talk

for some time.

 

The shoot, gave root

and stood as it should–

the willow wept, for those

left behind.

He went to them at night

never in the flesh, but

in speaking, seeing dreams

laughing amid their branches

arms drooping, scooping him up

 

cradling him into the dawn.