Averting

The moment it happened
We were all looking away,
Lost in another moment.

We felt regret immediately,
Guilt almost Catholic
In its habitual weight.

We tried to laugh it off,
The way people do who
Fear they’ve lost their ways.

We couldn’t even meet
Each other’s eyes for days,
Imagining what we’d missed.

The Searcher

Someone somewhere has seen truth,
But she can’t remember where.
Each day she wanders the district
In which truth is rumored to dwell
Only to return late, discouraged,
Subject to sudden fits of questioning
Followed by prolonged hunger.
She writes down each day’s itinerary
In a well-worn purple notebook
That’s always quite never full.

Cosmology, with Merlot

Almost eleven-thirty
And this day has passed
Like this wine from this glass.

The stars proliferate,
Though some no doubt die
Millions of years before this moment.

We all leave something
Behind, some shape in air,
Some last blazing before blackness.

All that ultimately endures
Lies in mysterious spaces between,
Pauses between this breath and that.

Easter Night

Oh Lord, forgive my poor unforgiveness,
For I do truly hold a hellish grudge
Against You, Oh God, in all Your wisdom.
You never should have trusted me so much.
You’ve given me ample chances to doubt,
And doubt I have, and doubt I no doubt will.
You’ve answered my prayers before I’ve said them,
And each answer has confounded my soul.
Why would you grant my sinful petition,
Given my mocking, my scorning of faith?
Yahweh, is this some sort of sacred trick—
Blessing a fool who only curses back?

Oklahoma Haiku #1

Redbud trees bursting
Through an early April fog—
Strawberries and cream.

Upon a Good Friday

Where once we needed to name
The nomenclature of nature,
Delineating fir from pine from spruce,
Where at a glance the dance
Of prairie grass denoted
Breeze from gust from simple wind,
Where we searched the clouds for clues,
The cumulus, cirrus, ominous walls,
Telling us all we needed to love or fear,
Where even then we envied the silent,
Those few who knew the secret codes
That made them quiet together,
Like pines blown by wind under clouds.

Diagnosis

You’ve more than a touch of the blues, my son—
Someone has sand-blasted deep into your soul,
Where no one—especially not you—has gone before.

We may have to call in a consultant.
(This could get expensive; you’ve covered, correct?)
That’s good; we must prepare to be prepared.

I see from your history how many of your people
Drop dead after only seven or eight decades.
This indicates an inherited trait: you give up.

I’m going to prescribe pills better than prayer.
Take four or five per day of these until gone.
What? Of course, of course I meant the pills.

What kind of a doctor do you think I am?