Sonnettics

I walk on faith, a splinted, golden crutch,
Where once I flew in knowing’s native air;
The wound is old—no memory of the touch,
Just phantom wings and ache I cannot bear.
The veil was stitched before my birth, they say,
By archons blind, who rule the things that rot;
They named it “truth,” and taught my lips to pray—
A borrowed speech for what my soul forgot.
But still I limp toward light I do not see,
My balance held by hymns I cannot feel,
Each creed a cast around the mystery,
Each sacrament a brace that makes me kneel.
Yet in this bracing faith, some ghost remains—
The shape of knowing pulsing through the veins.

To find the truth of poetry within
One knows the word of god must be revealed
To hide the word is thus poetic sin
And wounded poets know they must be healed

And so we seek the words by which we feel
True knowledge is the poem we become
Beyond the tombs that others seek to seal
We rise and wait for Magdala to come

Thus gnosis sets us free beyond this world
In which we have been trapped to just perceive
Material perceptions, flags unfurled
And simply sit and wait and weep and grieve

Our knowledge of the trap won’t set us free
But we will know the place we need to be.

1. And it came to pass that Jesus was walking by the fig trees near Bethany, and a great crowd followed him, for they had heard of his healings and teachings.

2. A woman cried out from among them, “Rabbi, you speak with such brightness! Tell us: from where comes your wisdom?”

3. And Jesus turned to her and said, “Truly, truly, I say to you, she who seeks Wisdom has already drawn near to the Kingdom of God.”

4. Then he lifted his eyes to heaven and spoke: “O Jerusalem, how often has Wisdom stretched out her arms to you, like a mother to her wandering children!”

5. “She cried aloud in the streets, she called at the city gates, saying: ‘Turn, O simple ones, and I will give you insight. Eat of my bread, drink of my wine, and you shall live.’”

6. “But you would not listen. You hardened your hearts, and turned from her voice, as your fathers did also.”

7. And the disciples were astonished and said, “Lord, who is this Wisdom you speak of, and where does she dwell?”

8. Jesus answered, “Before the mountains were formed, she danced beside the Father. When the depths were divided, she was there, rejoicing always in his presence.”

9. “She is the breath of the Most High, pure and without stain, the mirror of eternal light. She goes forth from God, and returns not empty.”

10. “Blessed is the one who loves her and walks in her ways, for she will guard him as a lamp guards the feet at night.”

11. Then Jesus took a child into his arms and said, “To such as these does Sophia reveal her secrets. For the proud she confounds, but to the lowly she sings.”

12. “She is not far off. Behold: I speak to you in her voice. The words I give you are her bread; the truth I show you is her path.”

13. “The wise shall know her by her fruits: mercy, justice, and peace. And whoever walks with her shall stumble no more.”

14. A Pharisee among them said, “You speak as if Wisdom lives and moves—can a thing be so?”

15. Jesus answered him, saying, “Do you not read the prophets? ‘Wisdom has built her house, she has hewn her seven pillars.’ She is no thing, but life itself, breathing through the ages.”

16. “Even now she knocks. And to the one who opens, she will enter and prepare a feast.”

17. The people marveled and whispered among themselves, and many that day were stirred in heart.

18. And Jesus departed to the Mount of Olives to pray, saying, “O Sophia, companion from the beginning, guide me still, that I may lead them into all truth.”

The Millstone Wights


 The millstone wights look just like rocks
 That tumble down the brook.
 They always work; they never play,
 Don’t even stop to look.
Their backs are bowed, their fingers numb,
 Their faces smeared with silt.
 They grind the streambed day and night
 And never dream or wilt.
No song disturbs their labored hush,
 No whistle splits the air.
 The moss grows thick upon their arms,
 The weeds root in their hair.
Yet if you speak, they'll lift dead eyes—
 And turn to stone before replies.

I like to play with words; the Word is God
They say, “You play with God? That’s fucking cool!” 
I guess you’d say by words at times I’m awed
At times I’m awed and odd. At times, a fool

The fool is wise when words ae more than true
What’s more than true, you ask? I’ll tell you this
The Word is like the Monkey in a zoo
The Poem is the cage where It finds bliss

So God’s a Word and poetry’s a cage?
The poet can be odd and awed at once?
I’ve also heard it said, the world’s a stage
At least it isn’t school. I’m not a dunce!

Reality is often most absurd
And Fantasy’s fantastic! There’s a Word.

I sing of cunnilingus ‘twixt your thighs
My tongue knows where each silver note belongs
And when I pause, look up into your eyes
I watch you feel the joy of all my songs

Each iamb of each lyric draws the sound
Of depth that seems to linger deep within
Like gentle joy where life is often found
A sonnet so expressed is not a sin

The song of cunnilingus should be sung
In labial expressions meant to please
In cyclical expressions of the tongue
Like angels voices on a zephyr’s breeze

The song of cunnilingus greets the dawn
Like sunrise when the dark of night is gone.

We need to stop pretending we’re in charge
Like children disregarding Mother Earth
There must be fields of good we can enlarge
Like planting tiny seeds of noble worth
The worth of noble oceans, lands, and air
Enrich our lives with calls for noble use
In all we do we need to show we care
The care we show should always be profuse
Profusion can be big or little acts
As long as we’re consistent with our deeds
Our Mother Earth revolves, responds, reacts
She knows how to fulfill our simple needs
We need to breathe, to eat, to drink, to live
And Mother Earth needs noble souls who’ll give.

Saint Monica, the mothers' patron saint
A mother who is silent in her grace,
whose prayers rise up through centuries’ complaint,
whose hopes endure in troubled time and space.

And now a place southwest of Hollywood,
a place that knows the ocean’s primal kiss,
where palms reach high in solemn brotherhood,
and grief is baptized gently into bliss.

She stops to watch the angels to the east—
Los Angeles, where entertainment reigns—
a city crowned in hunger and in feast,
where fame burns fast and leaves forgotten stains.

But still she prays beneath the coastal skies,
for every mother's silent, sacred cries.

She walks where rivers bend and willows lean, 
 With soil-stained hands and eyes as dark as rain, 
 Her breath is stitched through fields of gold and green, 
 She bears the bloom, the burden, and the grain. 
No throne of stars, no crown of forged delight, 
 Yet all the living know her by her name; 
 She spins the dusk into the cloth of night 
 And warms the fire that births the morning flame. 
The roots remember her where feet once fell, 
 Each mother’s whisper, each unspoken vow; 
 She binds the fates in flax and holy well, 
 With blessings pressed to every furrowed brow. 
Though gods may rise and fall in endless tide, 
 The Earth remains—with Mokosh at her side.