Sonnet: Out Of Sorts
So far in my life, it's clear when I'm sick--
it starts in my throat--hot, scratchy, and sore--
I'm well, then bang! I'm shitty--it's that quick:
I can't get warm--three days gone, maybe more.
I'm 160lbs of ill--
and of course it's viral, so there's no pill.
I'm hot, cold, out of sorts, a helpless mess--
if this is some exam, I fail the test.
It doesn't last long; I know it's minor,
but it knocks me down, puts me into bed--
I can't eat, write, read--my throat's on fire--
I'm the foll with the sore hundred pound head.
Thanks, mom, for insisting I have tonsils--
this is courtesy of your wise counsel.
The squirrel, the birds are hunting for their food:
that's their life in the weather of the world--
along with enemies and mates--exclude
God, death, art, history, truth, the absurd.
A too-busy mind finds peace in the gold
that makes the trees shine, that declares the end
of night, the brief kingdom that soothes the soul,
light's old promise that we will understand.
The eye brim-full with the sun's golden light
does not belong to time--beyond season,
century, beyond the empire of night,
beyond fear or hope, or ropes of reason.
I look up, hoping the sun will burst through
the drab gray but see that my hope's useless--
yet hope's infinite: kill it, it renews
itself. Like time, love, like life, it's ruthless.
Each day our version of the burning bush--
an inhuman voice speaking human words,
which aren't words but truth itself, a rush
of knowing without nouns or verbs.
The last grasp of winter is this chilly
air--this clear tawny sun is spring's first gift.
What simply arrives or arrives simply?
Something must be torn for light to exist.
I've done the garden's spring cleaning, hours
of bending, being on my knees. So good
to be outside, so good to see flowers,
to pull weeds, to handle earth, stone, and wood.
Five black birds on a green lawn,
pacing, hunting, pecking--
this, their world, where they belong--
earning it, not begging.
Let There Be Light
What am I missing? Here's the primal fact:
If God says it, it happens. He says "light,"
there's light. He says "mankind," we're here, like that.
He says, "now," now; "day," day; He says, "night," night.
This is clear: supreme, He creates time, space.
He creates everything and knows all things.
So He knew when Adam, Eve, would disgrace
themselves. He knew clearly what time would bring.
It's not that our parents had no choices--
He gave them free will to say yes or no,
but knew that the exercise was pointless,
for He knows everything there is to know.
So He gives them life, the garden, the world,
knowing they'd fail, be banished into the cold--
that they'd suffer, kill, enslave, rape, they'd hurl
themselves into chaos, grow old.
And the point was...to create a species
at war with itself, then watch all those who
worship His Son, believe His entreaties,
who then know what sin is and what is true?
So this was all for us? This suffering
that leads to crisis that leads to Jesus
that leads to bliss, which means recovering
our Father after sins that were grievous?
He created us. He knew the choices
we'd make. We were His--what?--experiment?
How much shit it takes until our voices
shout "Yes!" to words that are benevolent?
So...all of this was an act of kindness?
God loves us, so that's why He did all this?
This is the same as saying that blindness
is the only way to bring man to bliss.