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Posts Tagged ‘God’

Tentative Fate

Together they would come to know the cause.
Resolved as they were in their affection
To be a love greater than any laws.

Her look would have given Adam pause.
The fruit of choice being against perfection
Together they would come to know the cause.

His tongue gave name to her virtues and flaws.
The taste of it all provoked the infection
To be a love greater than any laws.

Upon the fall of night, the feeling gnaws
at the heart, the mind, and the midsection.
Together they would come to know the cause.

He cries “calamity” when winter thaws
receding ice shapes their indiscretion
to be a love greater than any laws.

How has this union made them outlaws?
Banished from God and Nature’s intersection
Together they would come to know the cause
to be a love greater than any laws.

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Be Devil

So the chained titan rests
his cavernous mouth agape,
having spoken only a name,
inherited by those clever apes
whose infant minds enjoy the tests
of heaven and of God.

Pride, the curse of his design
is all that is left of his name.
The granduer of his body
withered yet somehow remains
for insects and vultures to dine
on heaven’s fallen god.

Is he not beautiful, not good?
Races are fashioned in his wake
their names flying before them.
Scraps of flesh for him to take
condemned to do as he would
If not for Heaven and her God.

He spends chained nights
alive to whats inside his heart
questioning an existence
tortured by mankinds art.
His answers are the insights
of Heaven and of God.

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They bow and touch
lips to stone.
Salty soup leaking steam
like smoke from an altar
in the gold star driven nights
over the glowing flames
of an old Russian Monastery.
Backs bent from endless work
like plants toward life
giving light.

A cold wind
blows to prepare the soup
for the tongue. Rippled
monks bend in unison
under the breath of God.
Their lips are silent –
always in silence
because you cannot talk
with your lips against
the stone.
They give their voices to God.

During the day they prepare
the bread they eat at night.
A waterfall of falling grains
ground and broken for a reason.
Men in brown turning the wheel
while singing praise.
Drown the bread in cooling
soup and pop those rain soaked
clouds into mouths worn
from a day of singing and smiling.
They give their voices to God.

Days of singing and working
are useless at the altar
when they bend to meet the ground.
Silence is the only proper
response to awe.
Silence is the only thing
you can do
with lips pressed
against all of God’s creation.
They give their voices to God.

Press her against you,
so she can bend too.
There is a world that kisses
you back my monks.
He created her from the same
ground grains as you.
She bends in the breeze.
She blows on her soup
and on your ear.
She sings, and prays
all day long until night falls
so she can press her lips
against a stone
in silence.
It is not good,
it is not good,
for man to be alone.

So give to her,
give her your voice
and she’ll give it back.
From this dialogue of creation,
the harmony of silence,
comes true wisdom –
the only thing He wants for us,
the rest is violence.

Our voices come from God.

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I stole something which I had plenty
and of much better quality.
Wickedness filled me.

I remember its feeling
being full
like a thanksgiving feast
of pear stuff birds
we made dance by
alternating their thigh bones
left and right.
I nevertheless felt forced to imagine
something physical occupying space

perhaps even growing
like aunt Sysaphus’ gut as she pushed
another meatball through infinite space
outside the world.

Perhaps today she will explode.
And the space remains evacuated
of anything physical.

The child of my self forms mashed
potato into his fancy in an enigma
as if in a mirror.

I thought of my sister’s dolls
the heads of which I removed
in an attempt to horrify.
It didn’t.
In surprising ways these thoughts
had a visceral effect

on me.

Now I am an adult
and my old loves, hold
me back. They tug my grament
of flesh.
I still want
people to know I steal things,
things I don’t need,
but I steal to be social,
to claim purpose,
to snub even my inner voice
and in so doing
claim the freedom I am owed.

Yet still the voice continues:
Let it be now,
let it be now.

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My God, I am dying
and with me goes
my God. My God,
can ashes catch
an image other
than of death –
Of death,
of what we
have come from
and to what we will
return. My God,
can I be with you
without being you
and what of
those I leave behind.
I told them I would
be back.
My God. I have lied.
For I am dying.
Without a last edict
a final word
without my home,
my family,
my God.

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No footprints, no roads, and no straight lines.
A clear glass world – no windows no doors.
What metaphor could reach a goldfish
what story about travel could pull his soul.
Does he feel the devil in his watery world
as he plays their passions like a lute
or do they just swim in circles knowing
neither whim nor will?
Does tragedy reach a goldfish
does time stand still. Does he know
the plight of his people abroad?
Does he feel the confines of the bowl?

I watch and nod. Wondering
what makes a goldfish whole.
There is flight underwater
unimaginable, indefinable, caged flight
and in that fantastic, freeing movement
there is something small, a floor to put
your castle on, an entrance and an exit,
a golden scale bikini, a miscellaneous shimmer,
a God.

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Karmen Zuttra

A kiss that turns away
Tantric prayer
As if it were an eclipsing moon.
The shadows in her eyes stay
Broken by her auburn hair,
a big bang theory’s boon
To remove the God
So visible in her every turn
Or her stare.

A heart to prove sexual theology
the mind to learn how a naked pair,
Venus and Johnny Appleseed,
Decided to fall in love too soon
and how history is just an essay
without a thesis.

She never ceases to amaze,
How such an infinity still has a center
And how a masterpiece can bleed
Through skin so fair.
How her finger tips play
heart strings like a piano
Or how God must move comets
According to a plan.
Her soul knows the count of the dessert sands
she counts them during the nights
When her hands are deep in a prayer
that God might bestow
Enough mercy to make her suffering
Worth the knowing.

It is in her suffering, not her beauty,
that I share
Unity imposed by blind fate.
And it is not by choice, but by duty
that I care
For divinity’s confined state.

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