Into the Light

That space where they can walk into the light.
Each morning’s dawning following the night.
That with their wounds I strong identify.
What greater comfort? Hard to quantify.
I am attentive. Also, too, I love.
Capacity instilled from up above.
My children in the night, those terrors felt.
Who is it they might cry to for their help?
That willingness we have to look within.
To that extent our empathy extends.

The Prayers of Amalthea’s Horn, Part II

The sin committed, unforgivable,
I thought somehow I was superior,
to gain salvation through activity,
the Gospel good for everyone but me,
that somehow I’d convince through constant prayer.
No effort, out in public, I would spare.
A million words it seems I prayed out loud,
or minimal, in hundred thousands count.
It said don’t be like pagans when you pray.
I, unlike Balaam’s donkey, might have brayed.
In glossolalia, my thoughts would range,
in repetition, words are meaningless,
a mantra spoke with angels’ tongue, expressed.
Engaged in altered states of consciousness.
An endless stream, from out, they poured and poured.
My lips and tongue, with Michael’s words, adorned.
The repetitions, some identified,
I’d listen when some patterns might arise.
To think he hears the words you have to say,
he knows of them before, your lips, away.
No repetitions, vain, that you should use.
The many words just like the Gentiles do.

For meditation, “Maranatha” spoke,
in Aramaic, “Come, Lord Jesus”, note
the other meaning, this: “Our Lord has come,”
By constant practice, my salvation won.
For intervention, there’s no bargaining,
for that dimension, your tongue, loosening,
your foot upon the bottom ladder rung.
The witches’ Sabbath, echoes, whispered spells.
My spirit, up, from in my breast, it swells.
That single word, my mantra I repeat.
Inside my head, distractions to defeat.
My motivation zapped by my fatigue.
My loneliness suborned by my belief.
The rest that I can access in that place.
In spite of that, you go another way.

From off her head that curly-Q was torn.
The bleeding stump where Amalthea’s horn
upon her head until most recently.
When Jupiter had snapped it like a twig.
His god-like strength, an infant, not so big,
still broke it off, and too, he severed veins,
the gushing blood that couldn’t be restrained.
Why did the boy-god make such vicious act?
No more her milk sustained him, meat he lacked.
But in her death, supply was what he found,
a cornucopia, with food, abounds.

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The Widow’s Oil (2 Kings 4.1-7)

The woman’s husband, of the company
of prophets. To Elisha, then she cried:
“His creditors will take as property
my boys to sell as slaves now that he died.

“You know my husband gave unto the LORD
deep reverence.” Elisha, in reply:
“How can I help? What have you in your store?”
“My house is lacking much, I can’t deny.

“A jar of olive oil, what I possess.”
He said: “Go ask them for their empty jars.
Your neighbors, ask for plenty — an excess
of jars is what you need. Then go and bar

your door behind you, with your boys inside.
Pour all your oil into the jars they bring.
With each jar filled, then put it to the side.
What’s been before, this unlike anything.”

The boys, their mother, many jars, they brought.
Each one, into which olive oil she poured.
The flow of oil not stopping when it ought.
Poured to the jars until there were no more.

All jars were filled, then to her son said she:
“Bring me another one.” This he replied:
“The jars, the empties, all are full, you see.”
The flow of oil then instantly went dry.

She went and told Elisha what occurred.
“Go sell the oil; to your account, inure.
The proceeds, use to pay the debts incurred.
The balance then provides for you and yours.”

Song of Songs

Let him kiss me, the kisses of his mouth.
With them, an action, readily allowed.
For more delightful is your love than wine.
Of your perfumes, their fragrance is divine.
Your name is like perfume that’s been poured out.
It’s why they love you, women, young, no doubt!
Let’s hurry, take me with you, me away.
Me, to his chambers, may the king convey.

Manifesto of the Repressive Reductionists

That he would take some pre-existing work
And write it different as some poetry
And call that “art”, that notion, we oppose.
In bondage, we detest all those who’re free.

(The foregoing text was signed “Thierry Henriest Charpentier”, dated as of today’s date, hand-written in cursive in green ink on a single sheet of A4 paper, folded in half, and hand-delivered without an envelope by the Constable in the manner of a process server, with no request for verification of identity.)

Psalm 150

O praise the LORD, his sanctuary, there,
praise God, the mighty heavens, that is where.
Praise him for acts of power, how he’s great,
surpassing all, this manner, give him praise:
with trumpet’s sounding, with the harp and lyre,
with timbrel, dancing, also strings and pipes.
Praise him with clash of cymbals, that again,
if it has breath, now praise him, everything!

O praise the LORD, our praises without end!

Psalm 138

I’ll praise you, LORD, with all my heart; before
those other “gods” I’ll sing your praise. Toward
your holy temple, I’ll bow down and praise,
for both your faithfulness and love, your name,
for you have so exalted your decree,
that solemn one, surpasses all your fame.
When I called out, to my cries, answering,
your answer greatly has emboldened me.
May all the kings of earth give you their praise,
O LORD, when they hear those decrees you state.
May they sing of the LORD’s ways, for it’s great,
the glory of the LORD. Exalted, he,
the LORD, but ne’ertheless, he kindly sees,
looks on the lowly; though he lofty, sits,
he sees them from afar. Though in the midst
of trouble that is where I walk, my life,
what you preserve. Your outstretched hand will strive
against the anger of my foes; with your
right hand you save me. Vindicate for sure,
the LORD will, me; your love endures fore’er,
LORD, don’t abandon works your hands have paired.

Psalm 133

How good and pleasant when the people trod
in unity together, those of God!

Like precious oil poured out upon the head,
that’s running down the beard, down Aaron’s beard,
it’s running down the collar of his robe.
As if the dew of Hermon, hoary snow,
were falling on Mount Zion. There bestowed,
the LORD, his blessings, life forevermore.

Psalm 120

I call upon the LORD in my distress,
and always, in that place, he answers me.
From lying lips, LORD, save me, and their tongues
deceitful words, about me, what they speak.

What will he do to you, what more besides,
O you deceitful tongue, the consequence?
With arrows, sharp, the warrior’s, rain on you,
the broom bush, burning coals, as punishment.

I dwell in Meshek, now is woe to me,
that where I live, amongst their tents, Kedar’s!
Too long ‘mongst ones who’re hating peace, which I
am for, but when I speak, they are for war.

Psalm 117

O praise the LORD, you nations, all of you;
extolling him, you peoples, all, anew.
For great, his love, that he directs towards us,
the LORD’s endures fore’er, his faithfulness.
O praise the LORD, our “Hallelujahs” thus!