Poems After Reading Dostoevski

“The more conscious I was of goodness and of all
that was 'sublime and beautiful,' the more deeply I
sank into my mire and the more ready I was to sink
in it altogether. But the chief point was that all this
was, as it were, not accidental in me, but as though it
were bound to be so. It was as though it were my
most normal condition, and not in the least disease
or depravity, so that at last all desire in me to
struggle against this depravity passed.”

-Fyodor Dostoevski, Notes from the Underground

FALLENNESS
A finger on the trigger
fires the bullet
that kills the man
who sits alone
on a park bench
feeding pigeons
whom he has named
by the names of his cousins.

TRUCE
Battle for the remains
of the carcass ends
by vultures sprawling
wings and screeching
violence, flapping
and agreeing to share
the putrid remains.
I divide
the foul plate
of a purloined pleasure
with you, a nemesis.
So flap and agree;
Rip the carrion
with your curved, sharp,
dark beak.

GOODNESS

“I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an
unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased.
However, I know nothing at all about my disease,
and do not know for certain what ails me.”
--Fyodor Dostoevski, Notes from the Underground

You may suppose that I am good;
your supposition may be right,
but not as you imagine.

I am foul, feckless, sick, and weak.

My goodness is a wheat field blown down
by fiercest wind and by hailstones
so large they seem as meteors
of blazing ice, and set aflame
by Samson's pack of tail-tied foxes.

I am pleasant
nonetheless, a man of passion
and of gentle conversation.
You would say of me, “He's a fine
soul.” That's what you would say, if you
should know my outward self. I'm good
in the most common sort of way.

But “good” will not do to describe
the soul of man: That's not the word
to use, and least of all of me.

All's not fair on the shores of man,
but rough jutting, jagged rocks
impose. There's no beauty here
along these barren, lifeless reefs,
only waves and stone, stone and waves;
A tide that shifts and an endless
list of the sea.

You may suppose that I am good;
or that you are good; or we, two, are;
and so we may,
but not as you imagine.

A Gift Abandoned before the Altar

Matthew 5:23-24

Two friends, as you and I, should be by now
further along in matters touching heart
and mind, but here we stay behind a glass
of silence neither means nor cares to break.

A fog it seems to me has risen dark
between our better selves, to dampen minds
and veil our truer souls. I see a light
beyond your eyes inspiring hope that friends

will still be friends despite the angst we now
endure. If we are friends, then all shall pass
beneath the arch of love and grace. And I,
And I must break the years of silent strife.

So trembling, shamed and humbled, I now stand
upon your stoop. Inside I hear a low
rumble shifting across the floor and see
a smile behind the glass of an opening door. 

Yahweh's Serenade

"Therefore I am now going to allure her;
I will lead her into the dessert
and I wll speak tenderly to her.
There I will make the Valley of Achor a door of hope.
There she will sing as in the days of her youth,
as in the day she came up out of Egypt."
Hosea 2:14-15

"The Lord your God is with you,
He is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
He will quiet you with his love,
He will rejoice over you
with singing."
Zephaniah 3:17

His tender serenade allures his love;
He speaks into her ear
of blessings rich, and hope restored,
and sings the song, the faithful promise
too long forgotten here.

He's called her out into the wilderness
alone--a desert tryst.
Seclusion strips the heart
of God's embarrassed bride; compassion
and pity beat in Christ.

With gentle hands He caresses her
and gives her back the ring.
Rejoicing over his beloved,
the LORD of all creation
with tears begins to sing.

Familiar Image You Are to Me

Sweet Airoleen, Airoleen, tiny babe new
born into a world of pain. Sweet Airoleen.
Wrapped and warm upon your mother's breast
taking the first draughts of life, Sweet Airoleen.
Sweet life, sweet death, Sweet Airoleen.

Near bald and pink and dear, your mother's tears
rejoice in you, Sweet Airoleen. Tiny Sweet
Airoleen. Plump and frail, your hands still
new-born fisted, but perfect, Sweet Airoleen.
Sweet life, sweet death, Sweet Airoleen.

Universe of flesh, muscle, brain, and bone,
How tiny made, Sweet Airoleen. So small
a voice, so small a cry; so small a face
beside your mother's tender touch. Sweet Airoleen.
Sweet life, sweet death, Sweet Airoleen.

A familiar image you are to me, Sweet Airoleen,
Likeness to your father and eyes your mother's
green, but somewhere else that Image I have seen.
Somewhere else that Image I have seen, Sweet Airoleen.
Sweet life, sweet death, Sweet Airoleen.

Baptism

Sunset falls from the clouds
as a neon-lighted mist.
Soft ripples call geese
to swim in the glow
of a sun-sprayed lake,
To be amidst the sacred evening
behind, above, and below.

Bobbing on the purple crest
of a sunset-wave, black shadows
honk and cajole:

Leaving socks and shoes,
I feel the cool, bare earth
beneath my feet,
then wade into the cold sunset.

A Poet's Walk

All the world's aroar and speaks
and means more than I can say.
Every object--flower, cloud, or leaf--
latent in poetic voice,
shouts and snorts and croaks its metaphor.

I walk through no mortal door, but passage into time;
a broken stone, lies beside as life cast down.
Myself and you and hordes before
look back from this Narcissus' lake.

A breeze, not wind, but voice of anxious thought;
Sweet bird in winter tree, are you hope or desolation?
Black bird and crow fetch from carrion the sin-stained heart
as snow falls with its icy purity from above.

Shaking its mane, a neighing archetype gallops free.
Horizon, sky, and day tell of our tomorrow.
Dark clouds, in cliche, portend.
Windows on houses stare or blink or keep a friend apart.

Why have all the leaves now fallen like a lazy simile?
Lapping up muddy water, the hart (with pun as well)
lifts its head, darts away, and dissolves into the wood.
Where does the dark path lead?

Child, youth, bench, grass
all sing a thousand songs
of what is, what was, and Who is to come.

I choose now a "less traveled" road,
as autumn's rosy evening embraces twilight
and hurry home again, ever returning,
before black darkness falls,
and I am left alone at night
with haunting, nocturnal metaphors,
or I lose my way

and sleep the long sleep.

Corporate Branding

His cardboard placard, a sign
With an adopted motto,
Is scrawled, "Will work for food,"
piece-mill, in black, felt marker.

Disheveled in brown, wrinkled
clothes, a fitting and uniform branding
with his hand-drawn billboard.
He stands at the intersection alone

With a small bundle tied
in a blanket beside him.
Silently, somehow midst engines,
sirens, radios, street noise,
and my own benumbed mental static
he speaks to me.

Silently, I reply:

You're working for this single meal;
what life is this for you?
I can give you so little,

I withhold myself.

Pity you, pray for you,
hire you, ignore you,
feed you, befriend you,
or just betray you.
What will I do?

Think no more; the light
has changed.