Summer ‘79, or Fleur-De-Lis

The afternoon cicada’s tenor drone.
Mechanical, an unrelenting tone.
The way the sunlight disembodies me.
Transcendent movements through its burning stare.
The chain link fence, my window, visible.
A narrative you think incredible.
The demon living in the furniture
and in the walls, the paper that adheres.
The paisley patterns, birds, embroidery.
The curtains on the windows heavy hung.
The window dressing, cotton to the glass.
A multilayer fabric barrier.
Just like her clothes I used to fumble with
when I attempted to, my love, undress.
Impatience she so frequently expressed.
“Just let me do it; move your hands away.”
Just as with all my careless fumblings.
Unpleasant really; desperate to please.
The pleasing of myself I hoped to gain.
The unforgiving Texas August sun.
The special one, inside the window pane
was where he must have lived because
his spirit cast, the wall, its flickering.
The sunlight shadows from the overhang,
the tress, its branches, blowing in the wind.
The demon dancing, sunlight shadowings.
Embroidered birds in style, rococo.
I think that maybe peacocks in the flock.
Their feet upon the tendrils, spreading vines.
A droplet motif, Persian origin.
The leaves and paisleys, more embellishments
included solely for their own extravagance.
Into that bird, I cast the demon, vile.
Hot summer tears upon the pillowcase.
The twisting tendrils, flowers, fleur-de-lis.

I Worship With The Pagans Sunday Morn

I worship with the pagans Sunday morn.
Where dancing constitutes their liturgy.
All good churchgoers look at me with scorn.
Accuse me of barefaced apostasy.

I read with int’rest of his narrative.
The ark recaptured from the Philistines.
To worship was his sole imperative.
Of course, dismiss as myth from olden times

or that their customs then were different.
King David, naked, danced before the Lord.
His wife named Michal, she was diffident.
Condemned his actions as most untowards.

If Bible story what you would believe,
because she looked on nakedness with scorn,
no more the royal member she received.
I worship with the pagans Sunday morn.

Psalm 101

The title is “Of David. A psalm”, thus:

Your love and justice, that of which I sing.
To you, Lord, by my singing, praises bring.
A blameless life, I will take care to lead.
When will you ever come to visit me?
Conducting all my house and its affairs.
Of sin, my blameless heart is unaware.
No gazing with approval on what’s vile.
Those faithless actions, never worth my while.
Perverse of heart, from me, are far removed.
With evil, won’t have anything to do.
Their secret, sland’rous words I silence now.
Their haughty eyes, and heart: so very proud.
These things I will not tolerate.
My eyes upon those ones who full of faith,
that they may be the ones who dwell with me.
The man whose blameless walking constantly
is one who serves as minister to me.
The man who practices his vain deceit
inside my house is where he’ll never sleep.
False speech will never in my presence stand.
When will I silence wicked in the land?
Each morning. Where, the place off which they’re cut?
Your city, Lord, to them, its gates are shut.

Psalm 100

A psalm we sing for giving grateful praise.
For joy, the Lord, to him our shouts we raise.
The time to worship him with gladness: now!
With joyful songs: the method that is how!
I recognize the Lord’s divinity.
I know that he is who created me,
and ownership with creativity.
We are his people, likened unto sheep.
And he, a shepherd, to a pasture leads
his flock. Our hunger, that is what he feeds.
His presence in a castle with tall gates.
A ruler who, reality, creates.
His subjects gain admission to his throne.
Our praise, thanksgiving, offer him alone.
The Lord is good. The time his love endures?
Forever. To the generations sure.
His faithfulness, all we will ever know.
Just as in heaven, here on earth, below.