The Crescendo

I rage, I toil, I cower and sweat.

I have not met my maker yet

and if I meet him I shall say,

‘Please come again another day.

I am not ready. I am not ripe.

The times not right!’ I’d wail and gripe.

I’d beg of him right there some sign

that he was fair; that fate aligned

and gave me all that I deserved

not less and from the path I swerved

by some dark power ill beset

to full crescendo of regret.

And in the whisper there I heard

the tempest break at silent words.

I knew, and he reminds me now,

that I deserved much worse allowed

for fate is held by piercèd hands

that save each one from fair demands.

From instant darkness, ash, and flame

and takes upon himself the blame

So God the Father please forgive

my angry heart; my will to live.

Teach me—slowly—how to die

that I might live for more than lies—

not what I see but for the hearts

That beat for thee—in distant parts—

a tune you love to hear and share:

The music of the lives you cared

enough to bring out from the dark.

And each that beats and stills you mark

as yours—this orchestra of strings.

So take my heart and make me sing:

Now in life and then in death,

may all I do; may every breath

be all for you my Elohim—

the Ever Greater Than He Seems.

Even Pinocchio Knew His Maker

The puppets mock the puppeteers

not noticing their strings

They dance and hop and raise their voice to sing...

All they know are peers

of wood and wire

of paint and polish

of termite hollowed ash

of ventriloqu’d voices

and mimicked choices

that with their pride does clash.

“We are the kings

We hold the strings!”

They obediently say

not knowing who in the air

above holds fatal sway.

Don’t you see the enemy?

He wishes you to dance

your time away until you say

it was nothing but mere chance.

Don’t you see the enemy?

He wishes you to hide

him behind a myth or blind

tradition that you deride.

And what if sin and evil

are more than dated words?

What if they hold meaning

more than the absurd

notion of a god that acts like a child—

notion of a god that is anything but mild—

For what does this race earn

if not cruel death

by turning on itself and ignoring the rest?

We rape and burn and pillage

We steal and break and kill

A child takes a village

But one father has no will

We sow our own destruction

And arm our future foes

We revel in corruption

To what end? No one knows

And all us so-called-people

Who think ourselves so good

With hubris higher than a steeple

At the wayside we all stood

The spectators are guilty

The watchers did the crime

The reclining ones have blood-stained hands

We all live in the grime

Not one of us is sinless

We all hold equal share

We can make ourselves all kinless

Or admit there’s burdens to bear

When we see that we’re all brothers

And sisters straight from birth

We’ll be halfway to discovering

Our purpose here on earth.