Underground Turtles

Ripples on a lake

trans

act. Glass

on a beach,

lies,

continues to be: glass,

polished smooth by interchange.

I watch a sparrow

as if it were tomorrow because today arrived early.

I throw a rock as far as I can;

it still sits, same indentation.

I cannot see past this fallow moment.

© September 15, 2012 by UT2

Those little mosses that press forth—

what are they thinking

in their eyeless, earless, tasteless world;

they yawn into dawn;

who told them to be just moss?

In our own little biome

we traverse our inner courtyard,

round and round.

We break the rules, stretch the rules,

keep the rules

in our own little biome-niche:

time.

We walk the perimeter—

its edge—

borderless, fenceless,

invisible barbs from which we are defenseless.

Time.

When it rains the rains fall,

when it snows the snows fall—

or is that simply singular:

snow,

rain?

that’s all,

each droplet one in the sea,

each flake one in the sea:

Humanity:

you, me:

hair, lashes, skin,

bone, teeth, flesh

to meet the molecules

to meet the cells

that splash and sing among

the DNA

(to meet the solemn moon in its rising).

That’s what I am

barking in the shadows

punctual (right on time)

one tree in this great universal petri dish

forest.

© April 12, 2012 by UT2

He is above all,

yet, He—the second Person

of the Trinity—in the fullness of time

became low—as animals looked on—born in a barn.

What mere mortal man could have dreamed up such a scene?

Wholly God, wholly man

Holy God, a Holy Man—

God is above all,

and being above all,

above all,

does not—would not—

force Himself or His plan

on mortal man. Indeed,

God is a gentleman.

Therefore, when I tell the Christmas story

of God—so willingly shedding His glory

for a while—exchanging home and throne

for a manger and a cross: for God so loved the world—

I do so in the same Spirit

not as prosecutor, not as proselytizer

but more as Paul—

who as Saul

had once persecuted the Christians,

who as Saul had once seen the blinding light in the desert—

not as judge and jury,

not as cross examiner or crucifier,

not even defense attorney

but as Paul singing from prison

and Silas—

praying for his persecutors and as such saying

God is a gentleman.

© December 15, 2010 by UT2

1

What is poetry?

The skunk curled up in the feed bucket?

Or you as you unwittingly carry it down

from 6 to 9,

set the bucket on the flat of the flatbed?

You watch it scurry, a bit shocked,

that is, the skunk.

2

We have just gotten back with a load of sawdust from Maywood Furniture Factory on Bulb Ave.

Or was that Thompson?

The dust would be covered over all our clothes.

At home

my dad would take a broom and sweep me off.

We breathe in lots of fine dust-

fine indeed–

as well as ammonia.

One day my draft notice comes, one day

I guess as it should have been:

it was fine.

I trade my shovel for a rifle.

© October 9, 2013 by UT2

O, slow,

I am sheep in fog.

Dolorous,

I see through a glass

darkly; nevertheless,

I

know who my shepherd is.

© May 15, 2013 by UT2

Keen the sharp edge,
even redundancy,
life, as with poetry,
is best facilitated by brevity,
point a – point b.
But there are the exceptions