Protection

A rush of sound, like a rumbling train
where there could be no tracks.
A dread like no other, for the ones who could feel it.
But the sleeping child, blind and deaf to the cleft in the earth,
Rolling gently from the fallen crib, to the only place
where no leaden object lay.
Some protector had held them at bay.

Pedals spin around, and small wheels on the ground
of a summer street.
A pedal pressed down, big wheels bearing down
at high speed.
But the oblivious boy, blind and deaf to the deadly breath
of the metal dragon,
Turning randomly out of its path, making the only escape
from the grip of fate on that day.
A protector had turned him away.

A spark of fire, from a broken wire that rested against
a dry paper box in the closet.
A flame kindled, when no one was near to see it.
But the studying man, nor any of his own,
could never have known
That the heat could find no air, though just a moment before
it had been ripe for a blaze.
The protector had blown it away.

A black shadow, snaking through the insides of a
broken body.
An unwelcomed invader, which could not be seen or killed.
And the dying old man, half praying for healing and half
ready to leave,
Had now met a danger from which he would not
finally be saved.
His protector would not interfere today.

“Your work was done,” said the soothing voice, “The choice
was one we knew was best.”
“We’ve known for so long, how you’ve longed for your rest.”
And the happy new man, who never again would know tears,
Had now met the one who had been with him
through the years,
and had never left him alone.
This protector now welcomed him home.

What Do I Know?

What do I know, that I could write about?
Horticulture, viticulture? Astronomy, barometry?
Physics, mystics? Chemistry, telemetry?
The mysteries of history—primeval and medieval?
The rhymes of time—paternity and modernity?

No, none of these; nor crime scenes or trees,
nor legalities or “legalese”
or homicide or suicide
or psych- or sociology.

What I know that I could write—
Could put it down and get it right—
Would be the world I find inside
But half of which I have to hide.

My humanity, my insanity? My philosophy, my sophistry?
My hate, my weight, my always being late?
My witicisms, my cynicism?
My wandering eyes, my layered lies?

If I would write of what I know
of friends betrayed and foes obeyed
of faith that’s old, a heart that’s cold
Let alone the roads my sleep-thoughts take
Not to mention when I’m awake!

It seems I would be awfully brave
To spend the secrets that I save…

What can I learn, that I could write about?


[NOTE: This poem is not autobiographical (of course). It is dedicated to all those other people who are too cowardly to write about themselves.]

20 Years

(For Jill on our 20th anniversary)

A shot in the arm reveals a need in me
Not in a partner who loves like she
But that’s what I got
It was just like a shot
When we reached 20 years

I’ve been thankful for the first 19
Truly grateful that she’s on my team
But she took a leap
All-star to MVP
When the streak hit 20 years

The Artist has created a “helper suitable”
And her landscape has always been beautiful
But she took the Grand Prize
For the shine in her eyes
When I’d seen it for 20 years

We have made beautiful music together
And it will ring in my ears forever
But it became much more strong
And my favorite song
When I’d heard it for 20 years

I’ve been intoxicated with her time after time
And the cup of her love is like the best wine
It took the heart that I had
And made it even more glad
When it had aged for 20 years

I’m still inclined to stay Protestant
Nor take the Roman view of the sacraments
But each look at her face
Is a means of God’s grace
When we’ve worshipped Him together for 20 years

Dreams

Worlds you can visit only once,
and never can return, though a world
of riches and time are yours.
Times you lose when you awake
and long for their return, though in time
they never were and are no more.
They never were and are no more.

Swimming through the air above
or falling down, though highs and lows
are only in the landscape of the mind.
The motion and sensations are real
to the soft machine, though it lies in tow
at the end of the borderland.

The guilt and grace are real as well,
but more the first, although the soul
perceives it will be rescued by the dawn.
It fears the consequences of its crimes
and stays its hand, though not as far as in the light,
far by this form of darkness drawn.

If I could choose to stay or go,
I might remain, though I suppose
before too long a longing for the real
would weave its way into my thoughts
and soil the cloth, though if it not,
the caress of the eternal dress I feel.