The Child in the Corner

In the hanging darkness of the cave,

I was constricted by the rough, blood-stained,

Pine stocks digging into my ankles

Like a leopard clinging to an antelope.

The cave’s entrance was a mere walk in front of me,

Golden strings of light forming a translucent

Curtain that yearned from me to pass through to the scene beyond.

Every recess in my being pulled both my gaze and my will towards that place.

Standing would run the age-sharpened claws through

My leg like an amateur surgeon;

But to bathe my skin in the radiant heat,

I would have happily born the beast’s scars.

But the chain embedded in the wood was clutched fastly

In the bloodless hands of the gaunt child in the corner.

He wrapped his body around the cold grey chain,

Curled up like a shipwreck survivor holding a taught rescue line.

I saw twelve individual spinal vertebrae spreading his skin

Like mountains trying to break through the grey stormclouds.

Seeing its naked form, I stood up and dragged my pets further from

The beckoning light, and sat down next to the quivering leaf.

Then I waited to see if the angel would look up at me. 

The Beauty of the Sun

(For My Love)

A single dandelion stood in the shadows

Of the identical stalks of tall grass.

It remained bent, hiding its colors in

A green shell that seemed closed for far too long.

But the long, graceful fingers of

Sunlight picked through the brilliant

Green stalks to coax the dandelion to

Come closer to its intoxicating presence.

In the audience of its warmth the

Green-capped sprout laid bare its layers

Of gold fabric so long hidden inside a stiff shell.

Where would the dandelion be without the

Light’s consistent touch keeping it naturally

Bent neck pointed towards the Heavens?

It would have withered away into itself,

Were it not for the beauty of the sun.

Short Image poems assignment

A Rusted Light

A rusted light hangs.

Its age is seen clearly in the

Flakes of red as,

Populous as daisies in an open field.

A Microphone Cable

A microphone cable grips tightly to a stand,

Like vines hanging off a Redwood's lowest branch.

A Fat Squirrel 

A fat squirrel rests on his haunches 

Stuffing another nut quickly

Between his expanding cheeks.

Writing Plan

I will write between 11:20 and 11:40 on Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays in Chapel.  I will sketch out some poems, and fish for ideas that I will write in pencil in my small writing notebook. Because the setting is in Chapel, everyone save the speaker is bound by ceremony to be quiet, so my distractions are very minimum.  Also, I can let my musings from things said in Chapel to find a sort of inspiration in my mind.

Lastly, I will write between 1:00 and 1:30 on Saturday and Sunday in my dorm room where it is quite deserted at that time of day.  I will be writing/buffing of rough poem sketches during that time on my laptop to allow easy upload access on more polished drafts.

Week of January 26th

Jesus will be sitting in the chair.

When the anger in my eyes flare,

When the skin of my chin doesn't care,

When the words from my lips scare,

When the roughness of my hands rip and tear,

When my lungs are short on air,

When my body does not compare,

When my feet enter the lair,

When my arms refuse to reach out and care,

When my heart cannot bear,

When my looks aren't fair,

When my mind doesn't dare,

When my tongue dries from wear,

When the glean of my eyes pretend no one is there,

Jesus is still sitting in the chair.

For the Week of January 19th

The Hanging Cross

There in the Dingy Streets of London I saw the Hanging Cross

Though the wall was without all its stones,

And though the vines crept up its rusted hooks,

The Hanging Cross refused to succumb to decay.

Though the wind battered the cross from all sides,

And though the frost separated every passage in its wood,

The Hanging Cross refused to succumb to abuse.

Though the red cloth around its shoulders was long ago torn from it,

And though the reach of some distant war left a gapping pit at its foot,

The Hanging Cross refused to succumb to humanity.

But it would look out over the buzzing streets for as long as it could.

This, the Hanging Cross made understood.

Description Activity Part II

Snowy Night

Snow falls all around.

Snowflakes—both fat and thin—

Their intricately chiseled pattern evident;

Fall lazily to the ground,

            Miming a teenager on a Saturday morn.

Snowflakes gather on the backs of their kin;

Hardly disturbed.

Four tires cut distastefully through the snow,

            But the white coat remains smoothly flat.

A laser’s red beam would shine unobstructed across its settled surface,

            Too perfectly to be random.

Bright snow contrasts starkly with the sky above,

            A blackness seemingly dimensionless.

Hundreds of miles may exist ahead,

            Or the thread-thin veil may rest just outside of reach.

Streetlights outshine all else floating in the darkness;

            Perception errs.

Concentric circles of white move around each light post.

            The presence of the orange lights cause the snow paths to bend away.

Unhurried and steady the pattern flows,

            Mesmerizing to the gleaming eye.

Lights illuminate the sole tree,

            Barren branches curved in unison towards the darkness above.