He is Here!

Posted by sean

He is here!
Let us abandon our flocks,
let them run headlong into the sea–
our wealth like pale bread floating,
drowning in the water.

Let us run into this dead night
without coats–without warmth,
dead as frozen corpses–our hearts
dying under the fiery gaze of heaven’s eyes.
He is here! we need no terrestrial life,
no warmth for our twisted bodies.

Let us throw our bodies into joyful contortions,
let us scream his name into the black void of space.
We may freeze on these hills
or melt under a torrent of flaming alien rock,
falling dead from the heavens
in utter, terrored worship.

Let us scream His name across these hills,
running with bleeding feet unto the vast, dead cities.
Let us tell these corpses
rotting in their rotting funeral houses:
“Behold you dead men! The KING OF ALL
is birthed bloody on the hay of a bleak cavern stable!”

His holy heart beats in the throbbing asthmatic chest
of a body already dying–twisted in the body
of a freezing newborn babe, red with fear
and the first feel of frozen air.

He beats the air with fists to pierce,
screams through lips to speak God’s words
to a dead world–to you, dead people!
Wake to this terrible night!
Come out of your graves, tear off your graveclothes,
rip out your silent hearts and set them on fire
and run and scream and gibber with us
through this pitch-black midnight!

We run to pitch-black Bethlehem!
We go to prostrate ourselves before the King of all,
incarnate in a sickly, bloodied babe.

November Message

Posted by sean

Haplessly trudging under weight
Across red clay bleeding in the rain;
Numb in warmth, stomach overfull,
Eyes shot in the glowing of the screen.

Disparaging the merits of my love,
Claiming happiness yours to withhold;
Soul too small, good not good enough,
Smile and laughter spent and cast to earth.

Shivering quickly between halls,
Taking shelter from November rain;
The wind that cast its leaves back to the walk,
Evergreen dancing in the cold.

The shared class and the smirking over trays,
Razor wit cascading over mugs.
Mistletoe haunts each barren oak,
Red clay dries to old veins on the walk.

Increasing terseness in your rapid text
Until silence reigned upon my head.
Torn asunder by a blade of mute,
False god but to leap and leave to die.

My skull become your ever azure sky,
My bones become the mountains that you love,
My lips a story that you ceased to tell,
my blood the clay you drink your coffee from.

Visting New York in Autumn

Posted by sean

The mornings are all of a sudden freezing, the trees are gilded and beginning to strip bare and I’m reminded of my trip to New York City in November 2008. It was my first time in that city and I was awed by it. It was so loud, dirty and obnoxious, yet it felt so elegant under it’s grey skies and cold rain, illuminated by yellow leaves and green mold.

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Crossing

Posted by sean

Crossing

A lid of flawed white hides the purple river,
Raging slowly under its clouded cornea.
The blackness below the purple,
Sunlessness, seeps through the dilating cracks.
Ice is a ground window
Down, observatory to the grave.

Winter brings sterility in cold,
Grey numbness in negative space.
Its hoariness or fresh wild lace
May crust this river bank
Or pass across its cracks pale barefoot.

I am told by winter’s soldier that there is no Spring
Across this treacherous trapdoor Jordan,
Beauty tips and is lost in its annihilating depths.
But I have smelled life mingled in the ice-fumed air,
And the purity of it calls me to cross
To meet my master there.

Analog Blog

Posted by sean

I love to write poetry. There was a time when a spiral bound notebook was my best friend, full to the bursting with youthful longings and observations in stilted rhyme. I’d like to think my poetry has matured since then, but I’m still very much untrained.

In my late teen years my poetry made an exodus from the pages of notebooks to the word processor documents on my computer. I even found myself writing poetry on a keyboard instead of with a handy pen on lined paper. For me, poetry will always be a handwritten art form, but the editing and storage aspect had become digital.

I’ve found in recent years that this is no longer the case.

I love buying small leather journals. I have at least five. Some become personal journals, some become concept and scratch books, others don’t really have a purpose and remain mostly blank. I have, however, created what I call a poetry finishing journal–the final resting place for my poems that I deem worthy of this honor. Most of my poems still go on my hard drive, but I no longer trust this as a safe medium. I’ve heard too many horror stories about burnt out drives and viruses, and though I do have a Mac, I just feel that analog is safer.

I guess you can call it my analog blog. Hey, there’s a thought for the yuppies and hipsters! I could make a fortune on overpriced faux leather journals, maybe even start a cafe with public “analog blogs” chained to reading tables so anyone can peruse the newest entries. This could be big!

The Savior of The World

Posted by sean

Sing this to the tune of Danny Boy. It is glorious!

 

“I Cannot Tell”
by William Young Fullerton.

I cannot tell why He Whom angels worship,
Should set His love upon the sons of men,
Or why, as Shepherd, He should seek the wanderers,
To bring them back, they know not how or when.
But this I know, that He was born of Mary
When Bethlehem’s manger was His only home,
And that He lived at Nazareth and labored,
And so the Savior, Savior of the world is come.

I cannot tell how silently He suffered,
As with His peace He graced this place of tears,
Or how His heart upon the cross was broken,
The crown of pain to three and thirty years.
But this I know, He heals the brokenhearted,
And stays our sin, and calms our lurking fear,
And lifts the burden from the heavy laden,
For yet the Savior, Savior of the world is here.

I cannot tell how He will win the nations,
How He will claim His earthly heritage,
How satisfy the needs and aspirations
Of East and West, of sinner and of sage.
But this I know, all flesh shall see His glory,
And He shall reap the harvest He has sown,
And some glad day His sun shall shine in splendor
When He the Savior, Savior of the world is known.

I cannot tell how all the lands shall worship,
When, at His bidding, every storm is stilled,
Or who can say how great the jubilation
When all the hearts of men with love are filled.
But this I know, the skies will thrill with rapture,
And myriad, myriad human voices sing,
And earth to Heaven, and Heaven to earth, will answer:
At last the Savior, Savior of the world is King

The Fragile State

Posted by sean

She turned and her smile broke,
She wore herself thin.
Broker in charm, investments glass,
It shattered, it slit along spider lines.

Nervous pearls clicked,
She glowed pale in the fragile state
Flushed, like bleeding fingers
I picked up the shards,
I left them for another.

Bloomfields

Posted by sean

Bloomfields

Fields of honor lie the wrecked
Aging bones the stones respect
Planted seeds to resurrect
Blossom bodies back to breath

Dust-turned flesh plagued with defect
Image hid, His to perfect
Perfect glory to reflect
Image mirrors underground

Those He chose to Him elect
No blot of sin will He detect
His righteous wrath His blood deflects
His blood rebuilds mankind

Trumpet and the roaring wind
Life from death, the death to sin
Pearly gates to enter in
Graves are temporary housing

The Death of JFK

Posted by sean

Strange bearded men lure them all away
Sophomoric juniors from their destined loves
Wondered brothers beg them still to stay
The shot rings true, scattering the doves

The glorious assassin taps the joy
So that he can no longer feel the pain
The bloodthirsty passion of a boy
He loves her so she cannot love again

The shot rings true, scattering the crowds
Shattering the dreams, the ill-spent days
Splattering the blood upon his shroud
The death-shroud of his love for JFK

Yes We Can (or "Ooo! Shiny!")

Posted by sean

Yes we can progress in our immorality.
Yes we can give everything away.
Yes we can make it easy to not work or care.
Yes we can continue to indoctrinate our children to mindlessly believe whatever we want them to believe.
Yes we can continue to kill our children as long as they reside inside flesh.
Yes we can foster a spirit of unity at the cost of discernment.
Yes we can continue in our destructive materialism.
Yes we can glorify mediocrity.
Yes we can continue to challenge God’s authority in all things.
Though an almighty voice speaks “thou shalt not.” we can reply “yes we can!”
Yes, we can worship our hero, the shiny golden elected.

Chicagoland

Posted by sean

I’ve been pining for Chicago these past few weeks, so much so in fact that I wrote this poem about that greatest of Midwestern cities and its suburban sprawl that leads north to the towns of Lake County.

Chicagoland

Chicago,
Now more than ever you call me.
Black canyon grid-work,
Good-natured laughter,
Wind blows off the cold empty lake.

Northward,
Waukegan, little fort.
Ravines and concrete,
County seat, little Mexico.

Zion, City of God.
Founded in madness,
A maze of sunday-school names,
CCC the hub of the wheel.

Gurnee,
Riverbank main street,
Overgrown river-roads,
Malls and McMansions.

Chicagoland,
Lakeland, Lake County.
Once a home, now a land desired.
Windy city,
I never underestimated you:
Your snow-stained blacktop,
Your cleansing sun.

Eschatology

Posted by sean

I wrote this poem last fall for a Creative writing course. It compares the Autumn season with the end of time.

Eschatology

A wave of fire streaming from the north,
Black robed reapers in the fields to glean,
A skeletal band, creaking, sallies forth,
Wrecks crusting carnage on the fading green.
Mist is summoned from its earthen sleep,
The clouds are splattered with the sun’s red gore,
The sky is opened; space grows dark and deep,
The raven’s throat is hoarse with words of war.
We will walk upon that golden day,
See the season as it sets and goes,
As the Fall is slain and dragged away,
Marvel at His work that plainly shows
An eternal Homily –
Autumns Eschatology.