Thunder

Oh, Lord, I am so sorry to be
such a son of thunder,
my blood boils at the tyranny
Your flock endures from
these clerical stones in the road,
who will not enter the way
or let anyone journey near
unless running over them at full speed.
When will you free us
from these prison guards
parading in your name,
piling up punishment
beyond the grave?

I could shout this from
every roof top
for miles and miles around,
if it would do any good.
I know this is not Your way
but alas,
 I still am a thunder cloud
on the horizon,
black and menacing,
I hope to bother You
so You cannot resist
the noise of this silent storm
rumbling indignation from below.

Broken

All the broken people
hidden away in winter's chill
emerge in the spring sunshine
walking the streets.
We pass by
the young girl, heavy with flesh
repulsing the advances of
the lustful,
talking out loud to herself
eyes straight forward
determined.
Later, when I see her again
she is participating intensely
in a full blown drama
live with audio bits
gives me a glance, a mere
audience member who quickly
exits.

All the broken people
wandering but not different
none of us being born
under warranty
replacement parts available
upon request,
the completely new model
only possible under
certain conditions.

We all have broken days
silently patched together
sometimes very vocal.
We move together through time
carrying our burdens,
sharing the pain made bearable
with Him who gives us strength
each day to turn the other cheek
to being struck or broken
and in need of mending.

We Be Sheep

We be sheep,
this phrase echoes inside me
 a mysterious chant like thread
through my thoughts
these days.

We be sheep,
at the mercy of shepherds
some who care and suffer
in their search for safe pastures,
green and fertile
where we may safely graze.

We be sheep,
who often are led
by harsh shepherds
who treats us as goats,
leading us to sharp ravine valleys
up to finger hold rocky slopes,
left to the elements
beating us, often drenched
shivering and deserted.

We be sheep
found by the Good Shepherd
He calls to us in our distress,
we will not be lost,
it is ours to endure
sometimes dying and sad
always loved and
carefully cherished.

Even The Cat

Even the cat grows older

 we no longer brace

for her to dart out

the open door,

no longer pressing

for freedom

to be in the garden

from dawn until long after dusk.

Now she merely lifts

an indifferent eye

curled in her comfort 

zone kitty basket.

Even the cat grows old

and bothered by the heat

or visitors in her domain.

For unknown reasons

she licked her belly bare

looking pathetic

from the rear view end.

These days she wears

purple pajama pants,

sentenced until

her hair grows back

in hopes she will have forgotten

her neurotic ways.

Some days she escapes

this human-like bondage

until she, who

was the girl dressing her cat,

explains to the disbelieving feline

it is for her own good

and puts them back on

despite indignant protest.

Even the cat's life

is captured

by the aging ways

of days.

Some Days Road

So often it seems

I am road kill

on life's highway

hit from behind

blind sided both sides

ending in the ditch

face down in the mire

of my own frailties,

a bundle of rags

surrounding a bruised heart

that still insists on singing.

What is it to love

a stranger that you know?

Be forced to watch over

the enemies' fires

or rail against the limitations

found behind, it seems,

every turn in this road.

To be still long enough

will gather the silence,

slowly to fill the void

gaping hole in my heart

having bounced against

life's reality,

now sighs with resignation

in search of ways

to see over ditch walls

blocking the sun's warmth

I would go beyond

these shadowed and mired times.

Inside The Dawn

The view from the Cross

gets clearer now

 these years have

trained me to its embrace.

The fiery pain

uniting my soul into

its eternal reality

sustains my aching heart

left bleeding by the

darkness of sinful states.

From this vantage point

I can see the dawn

rising clear and quiet

upon the horizon

where only my inner eye

watches from

this place of repose

upon the wooden beams

far beyond the scene of

mortal crimes

our race is so intent upon.

One day this death of self

will step inside the dawn

I see moving in

 tender fingers of sunlight
caressing downward

these mountain slopes to

whom I will bid farewell,

and, as the song says,

 be gone

like the dawn turns to day.

Where Magic Dwells

We are created

to be hungry for stories,

told and treasured

in myths, fairy stories,

unto parables and proverbs,

(to ponder in our length of days)

given as

food for the wayfarer's soul.

There are those who

cry out against imagination,

condemn Harry Potter

as bad magic

yet, it is these very people

often in high places,

who would treat the Holy Eucharist

as magic.

Don't get me wrong.

It is the wayfarer's holy bread

when in the state of grace.

Indeed, it as a magic potion

transforming death to life.

However,

in the sorry state of sin

it will poison the soul

with condemnation and grief.

Unworthily eaten

it cannot save your soul.

Be careful, you who are guardians of

this greatest Treasure,

the words of St. Catherine

might be pronounced against you

for she says

God will use you to feed his flock

then send you into that fiery darkness

imagination could only hint

in stories told.

Harry knew all about these evils

fought constantly in battles

unasked for.

Even he had to practice

magic's hard daily work of living,

finding love where there isn't any.