Confession

Today dear Jesus, this, my prayer to you:
that you forgive my constant faithlessness.
My faithlessness denies your mercies, new
each day you show despite my carelessness.
My restlessness, as an impatient child.
If lusts aren’t gratified without delay.
Confess, I start to go a little wild.
From my temptation, take me far away.
Consider that location of my pain.
The place where I feel keenest, most distressed
My groin, its constant groaning, I disdain.
All I can do, my torment, here confess.

Johnny Appleseed

The congregation, preacher long chastised.
“Unsaved though, as an infant, were baptized.
You must eschew your clear extravagance.
Your calico and fine imported tea.

“The man for whom I search throughout this land.
A man who like the Christians, primitive.
Coarse raiment worn, his feet remain unshod
upon the path to heaven that he trods.”

John Chapman from the congregation rose.
With confidence, to flummoxed preacher, strode.
Upon the stump that served as pulpit perch.
His barefoot square, fulfilling preacher’s search.

“Sometimes I preach unto the natives here,
not wanting to disturb their peace of mind.
Believing that I, by the Spirit, touched,
the hostile tribes don’t bother me too much.

“I never will, with woman, intersect.
In heaven where a better goal attain.
Attachments. Definition – purity:
Attention undivided, deity.

“With Jesus seek to serve my brothers’ good.
Like miracle at Canaan wedding feast.
The apples not for eating as you think.
Ingredient for cider that we drink.”

Psalm 2

My query: why the nations’ endless plots?
In vain the people tying up their knots.
The kings of earth rise up, conspiracy.
To overthrow the Lord’s theocracy.
Rebel against the Lord’s anointed one.
“His chains and shackles, those which we now shun.”
The One enthroned in heaven simply laughs.
Rebukes in anger, terrors in his wrath.
At their attacks, he scoffs with great disdain.
“My king on holy mountain I ordained.
In Zion where my righteous son now rules.
Inheritance, you ask? I give you jewels.
The nations, yours for all eternity.
The earth, its ends, are yours, all that you see.
With iron rod, the nations you will break.
To pieces, dashed, that pottery, forsake.”
Therefore, you kings, make wisdom your chief aim.
Ye rulers of the earth, I speak it plain.
Now serve the Lord, his rule, we celebrate.
The son, you kiss; alternative, his rage.
His wrath may any given moment flare.
Those blessèd ones who refuge in his care.

For Mercy’s Sake

To those upon his right, proclaimed these words:

“Come, you, who now are in my Father, blessed.
Inheritance, a kingdom made for you,
upon foundations of the earth was built.
For in my hunger, you, who gave me food.
My thirst, some water that which you provide.
I was a stranger and you welcomed me.
My nakedness, exposed, you covered me.
Was sick, in prison, even yet you came.”

The righteous answer: “Lord, how can you say
that we the ones who fed, who water gave?
When did we see you as a stranger here?
When did we welcome, clothe your nakedness?
When did we see you sick, in prison chains?”

Replying to them, these, the words he said:

“The truth is only what I may relate.
These things, all actions you, in fact, performed
unto the least of them, my brothers with you here,
then unto me you showed these kindnesses.
These actions, how you gained inheritance.”

Young Zeus, and His Nursemaid Goat, Amalthea

“My mother hid me from my father’s wrath.
A stone wrapped up inside a swaddling cloth
to Cronus whom she gave deceptively.
Into this cave, my nursemaid was a goat.
Dear Amalthea, how she kept me safe
and suckled me when there were none around.

“I’m growing bigger, now have diff’rent needs.
Not even will her blood give sustenance.
Her broken horn, a cornucopia.
Deprives her of her life, her blessed strength.
Her hide, I take, to fashion to a shield.
My Aegis, no attacker penetrate.

“Oh Amalthea, that you could survive,
a goat who sacrificed that I might live.
Into the heavens, we commemorate.
Not Capricorn, but Capra, are your stars.
Autumnal holiday when we give thanks.
An image of your overflowing horn
suggests that we take time for gratitude.”

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Be Drunk, by Charles Baudelaire

The only way by which we live our lives?
Vocation: state of constant drunkenness.
The only method by which we avoid
the dreadful feeling of the wheel of time
that breaks our back and bends us to the earth.
Maintaining our inebriation how?
Wine, poetry, or virtue as you wish.
We never ceasing in our drunkenness.
And if sometimes, upon the palace step,
the green grass in the ditch on which you lie,
within your dwelling’s mournful solitude,
you wake again, your drunkenness decreased
or disappeared in its entirety.
Go ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird,
the clock. These things that fly, that groan, that roll,
that sing, that speak. The question you must ask:
“What time is it?” and this is their reply:
“The time right now, when we must all be drunk!
So not to be the martyred slaves of time,
be drunk, a state that is continuous!
Wine, poetry, or virtue as you wish.”