#NaPoWriMo18: Day 19

After the sun, for the Day 19 prompt.

A lone man stands in front of the bus shelter, his bag slung across his shoulder, hands stuck deep in his pockets, staring out towards the square, at the space where the bus should be.

Behind him, four bicycles lie in various states of harness. Before him, the square lies suffused with light. The calm, strange for this time of the day, is broken when as though dumped from an arriving train, a flood of people begins to traverse the square. After that comes the rain, after which it becomes clear that the quiet that came before was only the calm before the storm.

Alone, his
bag slung across his shoulder
he stares.

The square lies
suffused with light. Calm, strange day.
Then the rain.

#NaPoWriMo18: Day 18

After Eduardo C. Corral’s  Ceremonial, for the Day 18 prompt.

Here I am lord,
crouched behind the door
of this sanctuary,
wedding dress
crammed into a closet,
clenched fist
clutching a rosary
hoping the bite
of its ragged edges
will bring absolution
for this fleeing.
Like a dream hovering
just beyond the reach
of remembering
the taste of sugared
rancid sweat lingers.
This war within, between
the ghosts of things
once thought and things
now heard rages.
These thick thighs and belly fat
belie the assignation of beauty.
Prayer cannot assuage
this tumult, this self flagellation.
I pinch and pull, cry myself hoarse
In deliruim.

#NaPoWriMo18: Day 15, Cry


Cry for the riven country.
For the ones for whom doom
descended from the skies in Douma,
spreading death in the wake
of its yellow green tendrils.

Cry for the dead and the dying.
For the ones culled from the living,
whose blood, like a libation rejected
pools at the altar of the sixth fleet.

The whine of drones,
swish of tomahawks and boom of hellfires
pounding earth into tired dust
assail their ears, lighting up
the night sky.

Cry for the four horsemen loosed,
for the quickly forgotten
and the lost ones.

#NaPoWriMo18: Day 12


A Haibun, for the Day Twelve prompt

The greyness subsumes everything, water filled skies allied to grey granite blocks defining the sky line. Sometimes, a mist will drift in from the sea, shrouding the city in a gloomy pall. The winds howl incessantly, its fingers reaching through every gap and every crack spreading chill and forcing a quickening of the footstep of all who brave the elements. The defining characteristic though is one of just getting on with it. Sometimes – for two days of summer as we say – the sun comes out.

After the
rain, sometimes the sun does shine
Cherished.

#NaPoWriMo18: Day 10, Transubstantiation

Photo by Josh Applegate on Unsplash, for the Day 8 prompt, revisited.


Sanctify
my body as I pray;
with clasped hands,
bowed head, kneeling
here, before this altar
of remembering.

I come
for the broken bread,
blessed, become
shredded body. And wine
in urn, become blood,
spilt forty times
but one.

Sin seethes
beneath the surface
of this body, this flesh
from earth descended,
unravelling like a thread
roughly yanked from
frayed yarn.

Verbum caro, panem verum
I seek the redemption
in your flayed flesh.
Sanctify this body
As I pray.

#NaPoWriMo18: Day 4, What It Is

For the Day 4 Prompt, a challenge to describe an abstraction with concrete nouns. Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash

What it is is something smouldering
A tiny reed, slowly taking flame
That perchance with time might
Burst into a raging flame

What it is is a call and response
A place remembered and returned to
In a season of despair

In its light one sees
the self in all its glory
warts and all,
and learns the painful truth
that one is human too

#NaPoWriMo18: Day 3, Name Dropping


For the Day 3 prompt, A list poem of band names. I fear my choices betray my age (and my penchant for Christian Contemporary Music). Photo by frankie cordoba on Unsplash.

Six Pence None The Richer
for you corrodes my conformity
into discordant notes.

On Black Streets,
six degrees north of Building 429
a Rush Of Fools Switches foot
and stops to breathe again.

DC Talks to the Newsboys
Ignoring Caedmon’s Call
Until the Third Day
when the Second Chapter Of Acts
is unleashed.

#NaPoWriMo18: Day 2, Home

Snowed in, somewhat. For the Day 2 prompt.

I ache
in the winter when it rains.
When the wind, like the fingers
of a malevolent one probe beneath.

Deep down
in a place sometimes lost
where memories once lived,
lies the linger of disquiet.For forgetting.

Some days
the smell of fresh wood wafts in,
borne as though on wings of the wind.
Then, these bones – aching in the cold – rejoice.