Sequiturs

Here is a little freestyle poem I wrote. It springs partly from musings on communion, partly from an observation that between the order of this world and the order to come lies much unsightly chaos. We must shed the tattered gray robe of the pharisee and take up a bloody cross to obtain the white robe of salvation.

Luna lords the night in heaven,
cog and gear in consecution.
She honors nigh eternal pattern,
shedding old light, growing older.

Aesthetic graces call for order,
cog and gear in consecution,
shedding used light, groaning older,
waging life in tepid pallor.

A holy heart is under power,
like an engine, not like chattel.
It hearkens no established order,
shedding sins with youthful ardor

Saving grace connotes upheaval,
bold insurgence, no mere chattel,
soul and life in consecration,
molting death like molten lava.

Luna hoards her light in heaven,
meager lamp in gloaming skies,
entropic torpor now descendant,
nothing new, and all old dies.

A holy life is unencumbered,
for desecrating unclean shrines,
showers it in blood and water,
baptized in iridescent wine.

Aesthetic graces call for order,
murky mortal paradigm.
Saving grace erupts through torpor!
A star seen in the east will rise.

A holy call is wayward order,
ruddy brand in nitid sky,
blotting out the lunar hoarder,
washing red her palest blight.

Kingdom comes and wayward order,
gathers home her bloodied spawn,
red of gash throughout life former,
yet robed in white, break bread and dawn.

Dear brothers and sisters,
dear enemies and friends,
why are we all so alone here?
All we need is a little more hope, a little more joy,
all we need is a little more light, a little less weight, a little more freedom.

If we were an army
and if we believed that we were an army
and we believed that everyone was scared
like little lost children in their grownup clothes and poses…
So we ended up alone here,
floating through long wasted days,
(or great tribulations!)
while everything felt wrong.

Good words, strong words,
words that could have moved mountains!
…words that no one ever said.
We were all waiting to hear those words, and no one ever said them,
and the tactics were never hatched,
and the plans were never mapped,
and we all learned not to believe.

And strange, lonesome monsters loped through the hills,
wondering why,
though it is best to never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever wonder why.

So tangle, oh tangle us up in bright red ribbons!
Let’s have a parade!
It’s been so long since we had a parade,
…so let’s have a parade.
Let’s invite all our friends,
and all our friends’ friends.
Let’s promenade down the boulevards!
With terrific pride,
and light in our eyes,
twelve feet tall and staggering,
sick with joy,
with the angels there, and light in our eyes.

Brothers and sisters,
hope still waits in the wings,
like a bitter spinster,
impatient, lonely and shivering,
waiting to build her glorious fires.
It’s because of our plans, man,
all our beautiful, ridiculous plans.
Let’s launch them like careening jet planes!
Let’s crash all our planes into the river.
Let’s build strange and radiant machines,
in this Jericho, waiting to fall.

“Built Then Burn (Hurrah! Hurrah!)” - by the band A Silver Mt. Zion