Scientists and Poets

There is so little guise between
The poets, prophets and scientific men,
That instruments have rarely been
Available to measure there
When mortal souls met man to man
With gods.

Those great creatures, higher-ups,
Never seem to have any truck
With men who want to analyse
And take their measurements,
And quiz them on their sentiment
Of things that sometimes seem

The spiritualists and poets can’t be blamed;
They can’t control these sorts of things.
A man can only testify of what he knows:
That only moments or hours ago
There were astounding creatures
Flying everywhere.

“Yes, I know they’re not here now.
No, I can’t explain it. It’s just amazing how
Some things can always find a way to leave.
My cousin also came by today,
Or maybe it was just a plague
Upon my mind. I have been breathing
Lightly lately.”

Those pernicious gods are always
Making fools of mortal men.
And how they should be pitied, those
Who are gifted with the second sense
Of ear as well as eye:

Always hearing echoes in another realm,
The sounds of mocking laughter
Flowing steadily up and down.
Unless their hearing was acute,
There could be some misdirection.

Who is mocking whom?

Haze of Love

They brought me honey,
but I would not eat it.
Food from the honeycomb,
but I would have none.

How can I eat when my love is gone?
How can I taste pleasure when my heart is so low?

They found me at Ramallah
Wandering in Tesh Gibbeon
Looking for the one I love
Even as I searched, I grew far from you
In my distress, I abandoned you

Come with us, and drown your sorrows
Take pleasure, for love has gone

How can I forget you
Who gave my life to me
How can I turn away
From the one who will come for me

It was not you who abandoned me
But I who lost myself from you
Do not forget the one you love
Rescue me from the haze of love

Authority and Love

Jonathan leaned on Jesus’ breast
And breathed in out a sigh
And on his friend’s behest, he asked
The question that no other could get by.

And Jesus spoke no mystery
No story did he tell
And though plain, ‘twas secretly
So none would know, save those who know him well.

Mirriam rose when she was bid
And came before her Lord.
She said in quiet, a few still words
He had already heard before.

And Jesus wept, cried bitterly
At the pain that he had caused
He saw her heart, that loved him dearly
And knew no other law.

The others left.
The Magdelene, she stayed
And though she shuddered silently
Her heart was not afraid.

A gardener’s voice:
The victor spoke her name
He put off triumph that he might touch
The life he died to save


A woman lived in Jesus’ time. A whore
(Some called her so), caught in flagrante, dragged
By all her former lovers, to the chant
Of cries for stoning, to the temple door
Where Jesus sat. He looked at them and wrote
Some figures in the dirt, and asked which one
Was not the one who’d used her for his fun.
Her demons left her then. She stood with hope

And followed Him–believed him when he said
He’d die a shameful death, and planned a way
To give him all the honor due his name.
So, with an ointment, to his meal she fled,
And braved the stares of men who’d called her ‘dox‘,
Then stood and broke her alabaster box.

Something in the Name

There is something in the name of Jesus
That washes every doubt.
Watching all my fears and troubles fading
As His Spirit turns me inside out.

There is beauty in the pow’r of Jesus
As He changes old to new
Victory is found in giving
All my troubles to Divine View

I know that I’ll be found in You
Resting in your care
When all of my life has faded
And I place my feet on Jacob’s stair