The Morning

Death asleep
was soon disturbed
amidst his gloomy dreams
by a brilliant,
flashing hand
afire with golden beams. 

It was the voice
of Him who rose
upon a Sunday morn
that voiced the shout
of eschaton
and blew the waking horn.

Arise! he said.
Arise! Make haste!
Your slumber has expired.
Your fortune
now awaits you, Fiend,
a future writ in fire.

The Death-ghost
shook his cobweb locks
and blinked his heavy eyes,
stood and lumbered
toward the door
with deep and ancient sighs.

Through the portal
he advanced,
obeying Christ's demand.
He disappeared
and so released
the captive, spell-bound band.

Then death was gone,
asleep no more, 
consumed in waking fire.
And resurrected saints
they sang
God's praise, a morning choir!

Death: A sleep, asleep.

If death be (as it says
in ancient, sacred words)
a sleep---

Does it perhaps on
darkened earth recline
its weary head,
at home with worms
and feeding germs
the soil to make its bed?

Or could it be
that death does dream
upon the tear-soak'd pillow
of those who weep
for those asleep, 
wet with liquid sorrow?

Death may indeed
take its rest
while laying on its side, 
wrapped in blankets
of the grave, dark as
silent minds.

Fears, dears.

oh, please, no.

One of my most deep-seated fears in life is

having children.

or, to be honest, even

wanting children.

A pomegranate.

The pomegranate was hiding secrets. Smoothed with bright red, a lovely shape-- but what I wanted was on the inside. I cut open the chest of a pomegranate and it bled over the board. It stained the knife red. It would not give up its fruit. I scraped the inside with a grapefruit spoon. I compelled the hidden seeds out into the hungry white ramekin. The fruit clung home, resisted the coercion. I took the red case into my hands and tore it open, split the flesh with my fingers, my skin bloody. And it opened. The pomegranate opened and it was sweet.

. . . . .

Who is this, 

coming from Edom, 

with garments stained red

and crimson hands?

Who is this

who wears the juice 

of grapes and the 

bleeding pomegranate?

He has trod,

trod the winepress alone.

No one was with him.

No one rescued him.

. . . . . 

A knife would not do, 

no. 

It must be His hands.