Salt

Lot's wife disobeyed
A command of God.
She looked back.
Most likely yearning
For a final glimpse of her home,
The land that held her parents' bones,
The land where she fell in love,
Where her children were born.
Her refuge
Her nest
Her garden of memories.

She was turned into salt
A pillar of hardened crystals,
Like the sleep in one's eye
Multiplied from mote to monolith.

How cruel of God to punish one
Simply for choosing to look back
Upon one's roots, home and nest;
The past that made us all what we are.

Don't look back!
How can we help but do so?
To deny our history
Is to deny ourselves.

A sailor asks his messmate
To "pass Lots wife"
As though she's a whore
Hauled up a hawser
To be hidden below deck
To be shared among them.
An old salt's spice of life
Perhaps worth one's salt.


Yeah, pass Lot's wife.
That shaker laden
With tears of regret
Tears of longing
Tears of lamentation
Tears of frustration
Tears of despair,
and rarely, too rarely
Tears of joy..

Any man worth his salt
Knows that the salt of the Earth
Is derived from tears.

Collateral Damage

We were the beasts of your farmyard and fields.
We meant no harm, wanting nothing more
Than to graze on green grass and rest in clean straw.
Why was it necessary to send evil men to steal us,
Or cast thunder, lightning  and fire down upon us
Simply to win a wager with the Devil?
Why should the restoration of our master's fortune;
Twice blessed in beasts and progeny,
Be a cause for us to rejoice?
We who were slain in order for faith to be tested.

We were the sons and daughters of Job.
Looking forward to love, marriage and children.
Why was it necessary to bring forth a great wind
To collapse our eldest brother's home upon us?
Why sacrifice us to prove our father's faith to Satan
Whom you can vanquish at any time, but won't?
How can we help but resent and envy the existence
Of the progeny given later to twice-blest Job?
How can we not yearn unceasingly for the lives
Wrested from us that were bestowed upon them?

I am the chastised wife of Job.
Bereft of our livestock, our riches, our children,
Having to witness my husband's undeserved suffering,
Was it weak of me to question God's plan?
It certainly was not loving of my husband
To reproach me rather than try to console me
In my grief.  Is it wrong for a mother to rage at God
When he takes her children away from her?
Does he think that giving me a new family means
That I won't still love and mourn those whom I lost?

"Have faith and question not the wisdom and works
of the Lord, for his ways are wondrous and strange."
For those of us who suffer his collateral damage,
We pawns sacrificed to further some Divine Plan
That we feel removed from or can't comprehend,
Are we to submit without a protest, without a curse,
Without a raised fist, or at least a questioning "Why?"
Job was well taken care of.  His faith was rewarded.
Why were so many candles extinguished though, their light
Snuffed out, just so his could illuminate more brightly?

The Gamemaster

A good gamemaster plays God with gusto;
He's a deity that delights in deviousness,
An architect of puzzles and pitfalls
Crafted in arcane clues and obtuse riddles.
Why can't a god speak to us with clarity?
What sadistic strain of inscrutable malice
Or puckish perversity of the divine mind
Cloaks our path of life in a fog of confusion?

Rick was a consummate gamemaster.
To play a character in a world that he'd created
Was to live in vicarious fear of the god
Who took such fiendish delight in confounding us
By hindering a quest or orchestrating a demise.
Fate became as irrevocable as die rolls
Coming up "snake eyes," the fangs of a disaster
Sinking its venom into one's character.

Life is so damned unfathomably random.
Maybe that's why we've come to personify fate.
"Luck be a Lady tonight," or to beseech it
With craven appeal.  "Baby needs a new pair of shoes."
Words mouthed in vain.  The only certainties of life
Are the disappointments that come of dreams deferred, 
The emptiness of desires unfulfilled, and the awful finality
Of death  There's no saving throw for cancer.

There's no saving throw for a tumor that has returned
A second and third time.  We've shaped God in our image;
Jealous, vindictive and cruel.  There's no solace in
The adamantine coldness of such an unforgiving creed.
Rick, you were a consummate gamemaster
Whose intricately imagined worlds were only matched
By the brilliant future that you were advancing toward;
A degree in computer geology, love and a family.

You rolled a character that seemed destined for greatness.
But there's no saving throw against cancer,
No logic to random fate; no reason to it.
Perhaps some divine worldcrafter is chuckling
With fiendish delight at the ironic turn of events
That shattered the snow globe of dreams that you held,
But your friends can no longer take delight in a game
Where the outcomes seem so unfair, so unjust.

Short Poems for an Audience Weaned on Sound Bytes

Rich Man’s Religion

“By God, I’ll buy God,"

The rich man resolved.

"The front pew will do.”

Bye God.

 Ambrose Bierce

Chicken soup
For the cynic’s soul.

 The Dark Side of Me

It concerns me that part of my mind
Admires such men as

Oliver Cromwell
Stonewall Jackson
George S. Patton

Christian Zealot Killing machines

Whom I no doubt would have detested

Had I known them personally.

 The Heroin Addict

Seeks an end to his pain
In a life lived in vein.

 Cruel Stone Gods

Cruel stone Gods lie
Buried beneath Saharan sands,
Their stern stone mouths
Clotted With the dust
Of their priests and worshippers
Who sacrificed during their brief lives
For the promise of an eternal reward.

 Cruel stone Gods still lie.

Power Failure

Trust me on this one.
It is far easier
To curse the fuckin darkness
Than it is to find a candle
When the power goes out.

The Wedding Ring

A band of gold
Should never be invoked
To limit the bounds of Love,
Else it becomes a slave ring.

After "Super Tuesday"

It's fun to watch
Candidates smooze
After they lose,
Hiding their chagrin
Behind a forced grin
As they attempt to spin
Their defeat into a win.

Futile Quest

The most pathetic quest to witness,
And one usually doomed to failure
Is that of one who sets out in search of love
Without knowing how to give it.

Socialism

Christianity in action
Without the mythos
Of an "Invisible Friend"
Or the club of hellfire
Wielded to coerce belief in it.

Feral Cats

They arrive after dusk; they're waiting in the morning.
Their pleading eyes anxiously peering through
The deck door window that's smudged with nose prints
Petition me for the blessing of sustenance.
Their faith has become the responsibility,
That my conscience refuses to let me shirk.
They've become my congregation, my pride,
My flock, and I their faithful shepherd.

They come to me in supplication tempered
With fear.  Self-delusion would call it devotion.
I can reach out and sometimes touch them.  At times
One will respond with feline praise; a nudge,
A back arched with pleasure, or a faint purr.
If I reach out to try to pull them closer to me,
Into the warmth, the safety and a haven of a home,
They tense, their claws come out and they shy away.
Their's is a creed steeped in trembling terror.
The God whom they petition is a hulking giant,
Perhaps even a cruel diety.  Certainly one to be feared.

Perhaps this is the frustration that the God of man feels.
They don't understand that I want what's best for them.
They don't understand that mine is the way and the light.
They're too skeptical to make that leap of faith
That will lead them from a nasty, brutish and short life
Of feral fear to the warmth and love of domesticity.

If I were like the God of man I'd resent their free will;
I'd take their rejection as a personal affront,
Loathing them for the sin of feral freedom
That leaves no room for me in their lives.
I'd drive them from the safety of my deck,
I'd cut off their food supply, I'd sentence them
To death by starvation if they wouldn't accept me.

I'm far from being a God though.  Only too human.

Understanding their fear, pitying their need,
Forgiving them their limited comprehension
Rather than resenting their refusal to accept me;
I still only want what's best for them
And will do what I can to make their lives easier.

May some God someday be as benevolent to me.

On Prayer

Too often I've seen friends in pain;
Heard the prayers they mouthed in vain.
He who sees the sparrow fall
Doesn't seem to care at all.

Pagan's Soliloquy

1. Revulsion

I'd turned my back on that day's crucifixions.
The Gods know I've seen enough suffering
Since the Romans commenced their bloody rule.
That day, as the three wooden masts of pain
Anoited the Hillside of the Skull
With their gaunt, black shadows of suffering,
I made my way instead to the sea.

Angry winds had stirred the sea into a tempest.
Waves raced toward the shore like vicious dogs
Baring their whitecapped teeth in fury as they
Leapt up to try to rip into the jagged breakwater.
Retreating, snarling, battered to a bloody brown
With their cargo of loosened red clay,
It seemed as if the sea had become a chalice
That had caught the blood that had been shed
For man, by that strange, insane Jew
Dying in the company of thieves.

I wished for a moment to shatter as a wave,
To dash my doubts against a sea wall of certainty,
Splattering into spindrift the fatty complacency
Of a diet of intellectual sweetmeats.
Leaving them to taint the turbulent water
Rather than having them festering inside me,
Infecting my spirit with cynicism.

2. The Vision

My meandering musings were slain by a shout.
The waves were leaping skyward, dancing
In a wild tempestuous ecstasy.
Tiaras of foam were burnishing their crests.
The dazzling display of light that blinded me
Was as overpowering as the fragrance of roses
That seemed to waft from the sea to my senses.

Rising from an ocean that had suddenly come calm
Was an iridescent scallop shell
Bathed in crimson light.
Burning, passionate red crimson!

Standing on the shell that rose from the water
Was a voluptuous vision of womanly perfection.
Looking glass liquid droplets still clung to her,
Shimmering like tiny lights of illumination.
It was Aphrodite!

She smiled a wan, sad smile.
It was an expression of bitter knowledge;
Of remembrance, of love, of Ares, of Adonis.
It was the knowledge of her impending death;
Telling me that Gods as well as men are mortal.
She slowly slid beneath the waves.
Before I could utter a protest, she was gone;
Disappearing behind a blinding cascade of spray.

3. Revelation

You want despair?  I'll now give you despair.
There was a time when all the trees had names;
Baucis and Philomon were linden and oak.
One could watch Naiads leaping from the rapids
As their river tumbled joyfully over the rocks
On its plunging journey toward the sea.
Dryads floated through the forest's dewy mists.
Even crags and rocks were imbued with spirits.
No more can I hear the faint trills of Pan's flute,
Nature seems bereft of its beauty; soulless, dead.
Little did I know that day that the death
Of that odd man-God would mean the end of mine.
That the gentle deities who shared my world with me
Would be banished by this dark creed of cruelty,
This strange religion of suffering, denial and death.

What Lies Beyond

Since I believe that there's no God,
No Satan, no heaven, no hellfire.
Since I believe that when we expire
We need fear no judgement rod.
Why do I cling to every breath?
Why do I still fear death?

Family Secret (Three Spoon River Poems)

Tamara Sinfield

Lizzie Borden's trial goaded me into action.
Victims of incest can always read the signs;
Years of suppressed anger suddenly exploding
Into a rebellion of murderous savagery.
Mother, how could you have ignored the evidence?
Your empty bed, my blood and semen-stained sheets,
The embarrassed silence at the breakfast table
All pointed to the sins of a depraved parent;
His lust-filled eyes that could send me to trembling,
His voice, husky with passion, and his touch,
Repulsive as the feel of a tick on one's leg.

Smarter than Lizzie, I bided my time til
I could slip the sleeping potion into their stew.
A candle tipped onto a can of bacon grease
That had "spilled" onto the hardwood floor.

Fire!

I stayed in the  burning house long as I could,
Then burst through the door, my hair singed,
My lungs rebelling against the acrid smoke.
Everyone exclaimed that my escape was a miracle.
Desire too can be an all-absorbing fire,
Yet it's said Hell's flames burn hotter, Father.
If God hasn't forgiven me I've joined you there.

Sarah Sinfield

Daughter, I wish that I'd confided  in you.
Your father was once a good man, loving and kind,
But after I gave birth to you, Doc Meyers said
That another pregnancy would kill me.
Where can a Man of God go when he's denied
His marraige bed?  I couldn't fufill his needs.

Our shame came upon us gradually, like a storm.
First the forbidden thoughts rolled in,
Menacing thunderheads of carnal desire.
No longer could my daughter sit on her father's lap
Without the light patter of sin beginning to fall;
A leer, a lewd remark, an inappropriate touch,
Then comes the thunderclap of betrayal.
That "Sin that dares not whisper its name."
Then followed a downpour of fear, of hurt, of blame.
My faith in God became the umbrella
That I prayed would protect my family from harm.

It didn't.

Put yourself in my shoes though, dearest daughter.
Your father would've lost his reputation,
His pulpit, and we our home had his secret come out.
My only hope was to pray that the storm would pass.

The Reverend Isaac Sinfield

My congregation erected a beautiful tribute;
A weeping angel kneeling over a granite monument.
"Here Lieth a Man of God" it boldly proclaims.
My helpmate is buried next to me, of course.
She who couldn't lay next to me as a wife
Now rests beside me for an eternity.
What delicious irony.
I beseeched the Lord to pluck away
The desire that had taken root in my mind.
Evidently he never listened to my prayers.
Meanwhile, I preached hellfire sermons against lust,
Loudly proclaimed the virtues of the family,
Taught catechism, visited the sick,
Lauded the dead and consoled the living.
Vestments can cover a multitude of sins.
If I would have been allowed to compose
My own epitaph, I would have indulged
My wit with a nod to life's ambiguities.
"Her Lieth a Man of God no longer."
Read into it what you will.

If God So Loved the World

If God so loved the world as I love you
And I'd his power, I know what I'd do.
I'd rid your world of hunger, death and pain;
I'd bind Mr. Devil in a golden chain,
Putting an end to his sly, wicked reign.
Of evil your world wouldn't have a clue
If God so loved the world as I love you.

If God so loved the world as I love you,
He'd remake the Eden that Eve once knew
For you, and you'd wield your influence well.
His fiercest wrath a smile of yours would quell;
Your tears would pardon the damned from hell.
He'd view his works in a much kindlier hue
If God so loved the world as I love you.

If God so loved the world as I love you,
He'd scan heaven for as beautiful a view
As you, and failing, deem it incomplete.
He'd leave his Angels for one more sweet,
Forsaking his throne to kneel at your feet.
If I had God's power, that's what I'd do
If God so loved the world as I love you.

God's Mercy and Justice

Christians boast incessantly
Of their God's mercy and justice,
But if you ask me,
Their Creator's reputation
For jurisprudence is unmerited.

Can you imagine the uproar
If a judge were to sentence a man
To a lifetime in prison
For "Jaywalking?"

How is that any more absurd
Than condemning a man
To an eternity of damnation
For the sins of a lifetime?

There Ain't Any God for us Working Men

The poem read by Angus McDermott
at the Coaltown Tavern the night before
his pit boss pulled him from the mine to fire him

See that whitewashed church, you working people,
And that sanctimonious asshole in white.
The company owns that church, lock stock and steeple
And has the preacher sewn up just as tight.
If I've told you this twice, I'm saying it again.
There ain't any God for us working men.

Sure, religion's good for our wives and wee folk.
It brings them solace, some comfort to seek out
When they hunger, the baby's dying, or the yoke
Of wage slavery hurts so much you just have to shout.
A working man knows though, that it's all just a joke;
Just company preachers blowing company smoke.

"Labor not for wealth in this life," they smugly say,
"But lay up your treasure for the next."
The company must have found their own way
To interpret this, or reads from a diff'rent text.
They live in brick houses, and drive their fancy cars.
They add to their vast fortunes by short-changing ours.

You can bet that the bible-thumper's sermon
Has been approved by the company brass.
If you think you'll get God's word from those vermin,
You stupid bastards can just kiss my ass.
They tell you, "Be content with your lot in this life,
Work hard, distrust Unions; just go home to the wife."

We tunnel rats sit in back on folding chairs
While the owner's family hogs the front pew.
If we step out of place we get hostile stares
From company spies who watch what we do.
There ain't any God for us working men,
The damn owners have bought him off too.

Had enough of the company store, low wages and lies?
Had enough of their religion?  Join me and unionize!