Poems from Laments

The poems in these section represent pieces taken from the three poem suites that make up the book.  Each suite should be read as a single poem, but my hope is that each section can stand alone. If you are interested in reading more from this volume, please click on the link below or contact me about purchasing a copy of the entire book.

Damnation, part II

A mechanic heals what we've grown to depend upon,
machines that grow old,
machines we abuse because a mechanic can repair them.
And if they cannot be fixed, they can be replaced.
Both, though they breathe in this strange wind, are expendable.

What does a mechanic do when the shades are broken?
When he lies in bed with the sun in his face,
staring through closed eyes as if trying to figure out what went wrong with Icarus' wings?

He drowns.
The sailor I saw swim across a lake
is washed over in his own bed.

He won't come home to demand tabasco with his eggs,
musingly drink his coffee black,
and afterwards light up a Lucky Strike.

Where there once was the lull of engines,
we heard the roar of oxygen hissing through tubes.
A prelude to the silent dance of death.

Concurrences, part VI

So where is that grace and what does it look
like? And with these self-absorbed ears and eyes
how would I know it? Dad, you did not seem
ready to die.  Clinging to my weak arms,
hanging above pain by a morphine drip,
order was overturned and you became
the son.  I secretly cheered as you fought
the bully, death, knowing that you could not
win.  And so you were told there was no shame
in letting go.  Just lie back and slip
into the long, good sleep.  Now no alarms
can wake you.  I see a tear in the seam
of the universe, hear the silent lies
of science.  You died and only heads shook.

Peniel, part XII

I hear the Dies Irae now, its tempo set
not by my heartbeat, but by the hidden, icy
footsteps attempting to drown a numberless clock.
Systems upon system preach human precision,
and agendas become the C.E.O.'s of life.
Goodness is defined by distorted images
of a God whose mercy is hard to wrestle with.
And yet, neither mercy nor goodness are extinct:
remnants surrender to the happy coercion
of the spirit.  So will I.  I have read so much
that I'm only beginning to see the journey
as teacher.  I limp now, but stooping, gather much.

More poems from Laments