Otium Sanctum
The place is secret, founded in purity, cast as Gods love. It is spirit delicate as time spilling, sun drenched, over walls to flee. Holy leisure is not for the asking, but for the loving. It demands unity. It listens for God.
Paschal Mystery
Paschal mystery having flown by, Escaping my momentary grasp, I lean into the wind Breathing the Pentecost. Somehow the time is jilted, Waiting at the altar Christ is tired and seeking A bride that is faithful. Paschal mystery having flown by, A crescendo of triumph Is subdued by the need to sin Again and again the song of hope.
Pentecost
Two or three gathered songs of hope and promise - Fire alarms!
Pie-Plate People
Aristophanes claimed early human beings were round, pie-plate round, possessing four hands, two feet, one head, two faces peering opposite ways, four ears listening.
Four hands fondled two private members. Of the pie-plate people there were three kinds. One was male to male. One was male to female. One was female to female. All possessed power.
Such power struck fear into the hearts of gods. Zeus, the story goes, called together a godly jury, They found a solution. Divide and conquer. Every pie-plate person was divided into two.
Split like apples for the eating, or half-moons, soft, white underbellies exposed to the enemy, pie-plate people disturbed the fragile peace. They began to seek out one another.
And discovering their other halves they threw their arms wide to take one another into wholeness. Sometimes one could not find the other. So, they starved, one sided and shriveled as flounder.
Poets and Priests and Madmen
The wind drifts then in, Ashen leaves on tired tile floors and Solitude is their visitor In crowded bus station halls Where toilets display today In nervous scribbled rhymes. No one ever comes here to be. They are only passing in the too late night. Only those who are going away Or catching connections to someplace Like Denver or Topeka or St. Louis Have the time to pause and flee. No friendships, no loves or lovers, Only excitement is real. No one ever comes here except poets And priests and madmen changing places, Racing away to defeat life. Ticket agents cant tell the truth, But the wind has a way of knowing. And time has a way of going.
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