thedrunkenlark

[thedrunkenlark]

Psalm 1

My wrinkled hands busy themselves With endless lists and tasks, Clinging unseen beneath the waves Like barnacles on a ported vessel: Typing, clicking, and rubbing my fading hairline— Routines, machines, and LEDs. So it seems we are fated to be restless, And you keep laughing when I proclaim My preference for the tress. I would swap places on most days, Trading motion, vision, and distraction For roots, stillness, and solitude.  

[thedrunkenlark]

A Quiet Manhood

Today I nod at the face Eyeing me in the mirror. I extend to him a dignity Usually reserved for friends And resist every conscious itch To sink my claws into him Because the red badge of courage Is not, as we once supposed, An outward sign of intestine war— We no longer require such symbols. You ask, have you thus resigned? Or have the cannons fallen silent? No. We say as one. Grace, that slow and quiet rising fist, Is the sweetest fruit that sorrow sows And quiet grows. And you can give it daily By nodding at the face in the mirror.

[thedrunkenlark]

Quiet Things

Oh precious voice of quiet things— Cool winds and swaying trees, The steady humming honeybees,   The trickling of a spring.   Profundity! Simplicity!   The sacramental pair Which whispers truths in earnest prayers Like foam into the sea.   Oh calm and softly speaking earth You skies and singing birds, The sum of every stirring word Could never match your worth. Thus let me learn the noble arts Of stillness and submission The first detects my broken heart The second my physician— Then let me live, at least, in part Unused to my condition.

[thedrunkenlark]

Thin Places

If there’s a crack in the firmament Something like rain  Pours down on this desert And by its sacred incantation I see the twitching of dry bones In a creosote bush Shivering in the wind.  And this line in the sand— This infinite qualitative distinction— Fades into memory, like a wisp of cloud In the flowing purple-robes Of a majestic sunset Or a tuft of curling pine needles Aflame and nevermore. 

If there’s a crack in the firmament I see the reshaping of this valley Into an overflowing golden cup  Of wine which overflows, Whose dregs cannot be known. And in this thin place— This neverland where dragons  Still descend from northern hills Breathing fire and restoring valor To the world of men— In this thin place Where few men dare venture, I know I sip on solid stuff. If there’s a crack, that is.  

And so I plod on, Bowing my head  In the presence of thin places, Depending on mystic truths— The visions of prophets And the dreams of poets:  That whens follow ifs. This is the logic of thirsty fools Who spot mirages in the distance— We are the desperate souls Who gaze into the horizon, The deep within and the deep beyond, And behold it breaking through. If there is a crack in the firmament…

[thedrunkenlark]

Candles

I profess my undying love For all sparks, all heavenly flames Who dare to burn hot and bright: Fitful candles flickering Against the encroaching dark. You have many noble uses (reading, incensing, praying, warming), But you can just as simply Incinerate this house. Some think to steal away this choice And cage you in glass, Which is to say Some would rather not Know you at all. But when I see you Wild and alive, With your flame aloft Like a brandished sword, I know something of the nature Of Light itself.

[thedrunkenlark]

4

For my dear friend 5

ever since i was young i’ve imagined myself a miner at the heart of it all buried alive digging for something more longing for something that means, something to be.

i’ve tried on the bodies and faces of everyone but me, i’ve borne the weight of this silent tomb alone.

sure, you roll your eyes i’ll hum along on tune but the image on my stamp— remember this and nothing else— will be the fist that jabs through solid earth i am baptized in the mud.

oh i still believe in the sacrament of the holy roar, so if you want to talk you know where to find me and my pickaxe.

[thedrunkenlark]

Adams Park

For any of the meadowlarks

I have spent sweet days in Adams Park Relearning what I am Under the green parasol In the swaying shadows of old maples. Here I once played cynic And scoffed like a baron Whose dreams were thin at best. But now the song of the meadowlark, That blessed warbling, Has become a part of me Somehow.

I pause to wonder, With wincing tears, How all this has made A home inside my chest Or rather—a nest— That I cannot bear To see scattered to the four winds When this summer ends.

All this drama, I suppose, Is set upon some lonely stage In that subatomic soup Where all thoughts Of what man has made of man Are buried in silent tombs, As children dance in aimless mirth On the ancient stones.

Now I feel that mystic pull That drew the old poets To the woods To grow beards, tell stories And, with lusty voices, Play the bard, Bearing their souls to the sky: Maybe youth is the very end And not a thing to move beyond And way down at the bottom Of it all, the child is father to the man.

My dear friend, It is you beneath These sylvan shades That made these days sublime, And someday when old winter comes To haunt me With a mirror and a weathered face, I will preach the lunacy Of an old fool who once said: “Our father is younger than we!”

Yes, I will recall that song in Adams Park, The meadowlark, That has become a part of me.

[thedrunkenlark]

Another Cock in the Henhouse

Written on April 30 Two thousand eighteen years  In the year of our Lord Oh there’s another cock in the Henhouse Throwing caution to the wind— See him strut like a puffy-chested lord To the cluck-clucking applause Of a thousand at roost. He is without equal, Without fear, And charming as hell, The sacred recipe! Oh, my friends: It’s haunting when the road to God Is lined with weeping hens.

[thedrunkenlark]

Lent

Turn, and turn, and turn again Face into the pyre, And live as ancient children did By smoke and blood and fire.

Feel your need, and need again, The wealth of the unfed, Oh ground the strong and erudite And dance among the dead.

Sorrow calls and calls again Whirring awfully like the wind, What is this song? This whispering calm, This melody within.

Hunger grieves and grieves again Preaching fire to my bones, And for a few seconds—a minute At most—my soul groans.

[thedrunkenlark]

A Pascha Vision

Peering into the mists My eyes see the one door ahead, Behind thick and wild vines, I surmise, trusting the stubborn creatures And ancient signs that steered me here. As they squint and I relax my grip, A strange phosphorescent gleam appears Beneath its ivy veil—ecce, stultitia Dei, The long-expected denouement Of the only murder mystery.

[thedrunkenlark]

Words

Oh, distant blood!  Unreachable kin!   As the stars which I cannot dream To grasp and embrace, Far away and yet Forged from the same fierce kiln The same bellowing source, You whisper nocturnally, Taunting me with your mighty feats, Near immortal tales of triumph. Why do you haunt me?  

[thedrunkenlark]

The Naked Tree

A Lenten Poem

It stands tall with a stiffened back To the wind—the naked tree. It opens its shivering arms to the stranger, To the friend—the naked tree. It kneels beneath thunderous weeping And counts the bitter tears falling To their quiet end—the naked tree. It obeys without sound the shearing of its life To the brink of extinction—the naked tree. It bore this weakness for all To see—the naked, naked tree. It gazes down at a dark silhouette Staggering, shaking, waiting To embrace its patient shadow—the naked tree. It silent longing is for a leafy spring To renew its vows—this naked tree.