Quixote’s
Quandary
It must have been the windmill
churning somehow without wind
when I looked at the impossible
and embraced the improbable.
Standing alone, at the edge of a corn row
silently spinning its invisible flax
ceaseless, effortless, wonderful.
Yet the stalks did not wave and bid welcome,
nor did the shafts of wheat bend to God’s breath
but the wheel spokes turned nevertheless
in unspoken perpetual motion, a tide
of creamy circles.
The top crust of the land crackled under my feet
and it gave way, leaving my path behind me
I was drawn to the obelisk of man
I saw love that was without end
I saw work that was never complete
I saw the Lord’s hand pushing the wheel
like a child spinning an upside down bike tire
making believe it was making ice cream
or that he was a master mechanic that could fix anything.
I touched it
the wood: alive, vibrating, feral
There I stood for a long long time
watching my mentor at his task
and it was enough -
to feel smaller, less significant
aware like a small brother looking up at his big brother
then, as daylight ebbed away
the wind shifted
paused
for just that briefest of moments while it made up its mind
At the same time, together, we turned
our backs to the wind
and it danced once more,
slicing the sky.
The Earthquake of Man
The earthquake of man lies in a Great Divide
As dragons are borne and learn to fly
The silent prayers bleed freely from helpless soul
as children weep from a day filled with grief.
Nobility is confused with demagoguery
Eternity only lasts as long as flesh lives
and the innocent traverse the depths of Hallelujahs
waiting for the Richter measurement of tragedy.
Truth escapes from barrels of long iron
in staccato gasps and thunderclap interruptions
Involuntarily, neighbors of conflict duck their heads
In older, other times a fist would suffice
but even the strongest man cannot fight bullets with fists
And
they stand at the edge of a man-made cliff
looking down at the cataclysmic gash in their earth
in great denial
that the world loves them
almost as much
as they love themselves
Christmas
On Guilford Street
angel hair on the windows
in God’s handwriting
This was the portal to winter
through which a seasoned soul might walk.
The insides of the all-rubber boots were as cold as the outsides.
They perforated the night while punching holes
in a graham cracker crusting of snow and frozen rain.
A neighborhood, he was told, that he shouldn’t walk
in the nighttime, or even daytime.
Yet, here he was – steely eyed with determination.
Curtains would turn up at the corners
he ignored the stares, walked up the stairs
took an envelope from his pocket
and rubber-banded it to the door knob.
Spider arm branches creaked and crackled
glazed, and shorter now with additional icy weight.
The sounds of winter have no echo
yet they resonate
providing a perfect soundtrack for his mission.
A safe block behind, the doors opened, and so did the letters.
God Loves You – Merry Christmas
was all it said. And on the back of each
was taped a fifty dollar bill.
He didn’t need to turn around.
He could feel the warmth reaching him.
He had cared when others didn’t.
and sometimes, on Christmas
that’s the best gift of all.
Birthmark
All of a sailing night dusted cobwebs
upon eerie-gray starry confetti
A shoebox baby was born that eve
in glistening nocturne sheen
All thru the Night of Lambs
it bleated to be set free
Dreaming of being gingerly shawl-wrapped
while its skin turned pallid to wooly pink
All thru the night it bit at the chains
a mother’s resolve crumbling as music curved
cloaking the room in lifeglow brocades
Born soft-eyed like a doe
divulging secrets with no-one
but
passing its dimpled birthmark legacy
to everyone
who believes