A Song for Abraham

A Song for Abraham

My feet leave blood upon this mountain path.
They seek the stones that tear at them--
that tear away my thoughts of Isaac,
far ahead of me,
effusive in his lust for the unknown;
these stones that speak to me alone
of an ineffable command.
Of sacrifice,
of love I do not understand--
are they already stained with irony?
My son! Come back! The light is fast away.

Here are the stones as we might cause
to be the table of the Holy One...
see how they fit together!
Now you and I will labor in the night;
it is more suited to our task...and then
the labor is of God, please Lord, not mine!
Not mine, the lamb:
not mine, the shadow of the day.

But as it must, darkness capitulates:
the leering altar stands complete;
the last reluctant wood in place--
the morning sun upon that empty bier,
a tremulous Abraham,
an anxious son,
a knife still restless in its sheath.
No ram in sight

Whose act was it that arrested.
that bare arm's descent that morn...
Satan's caprice? Or do you plead
the changeless word of God?
~

The Shadow of a Stroke

The shadow of a stroke
For all the damages
there was no pain
but for the thought,
I am the person that I was,
and knowing that I'm not...
A Wanna Be, dog-paddling
on the surface of my intellect
and decked in silence,
just to play it safe.

It is a confraternity I viewed
from just a step above,
or so I thought. But now
I need not think at all. I'm told
that I can get it back.
Perhaps.
But suddenly I'm old.
There seems to be
a niche for me upon a field
of reminiscences but please,
not yet;
grant me a plow,
a whirlwind or two
and just a touch of irony
to force a reach just past demise
into the endless now.
~

Where Angels Tred

Where Angels Tred

The altar showed anomaly,
an orb of light,
a foil for small realities
that I could easily forget
for that twilight cast,
to things I touch or dream--
that spirit song sequestered
where I cannot go.

Thoughts of relevance
...of insight
...of perceptions being reconciled
with the mundane
then smiling at myself:
all those are imprints on the mind
vibrating in the here and now
and possibly across the isthmus
in the place where peace prevails.

Orbs are discreet and diffident,
and when you chase them down,
they're gone. No peace remains
this side of consciousness,
yet on the journey of the open heart
an awe ineffable, a resolution that a dream
would trust and understand.

Or a dream within a dream?
Reality is ill defined. Yours, mine...
until the breath is gone
and consciousness fights on
to redefine the light.
And you and I will take awareness
to the end of day--and bless it,
certain that the night descends
to claim its own dark benefice
and decorous ecstacy.
~