Rosary_______________________________________________________________________________Altar

I scraped my knees in agony in the rose garden blooming crimson and scarlet at my chest and throat gasping that last rattling gurgle to god in Gethsemane is green and grey eyes searching skyward hands clasped as the spirit is willing,

but the flesh is so weak.

...

Mother come to me

Show me the way 

and the light

that I have only dreamed about

High upon the clouds

searching

questioning aloud

  I beseech thee.

   "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?"

Dreams Of Doubt

I doubt everything,

I ache for faith,

but I doubt everything.

I dreamed of the Sistene ceiling

and I stretched my hands out 

without any real effort 

to touch (what? The divine?)

Holy dust poured from my hands,

A priest approaches,

He anoints my brow 

while chanting:

"Hail Mary, full of grace,

the Lord is with thee; 

blessed art thou amongst women, 

and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. 

Holy Mary, Mother of God, 

pray for us sinners, 

now and at the hour of our death."

The priest is a blur of black and white, 

He tells me to repeat the prayer

I cannot will my mouth to move,

He traces the shape of a cross 

in the air before my eyes

"May the words

be in your heart

on your lips

and in your mind"

The priest expects me to speak,

still I cannot will my mouth to move.

I gaze up maybe 

the words will come 

if I am inspired by 

the work above,

But I see a massive mirror

where there was 

once an ornate fresco,

I see only 

my own reflection

No god, and no Michelangelo.

Church Bells

On Sundays, in the small city in which I live, church bells echo through the streets. The deepest sweetest tones called across the cold air this morning.

     I can stand on my front steps, drinking down much needed caffeine,

and remember a time when I still believed.

    

     Once those bells that sing, calling worshippers to attend the morning service, would have summoned me.

In the apex of the nave during the elevation of the elements the intonation resonated something inside me.

                                              Question and answer.

                                              Call and response.

I remember Sunday school as a child when I knew nothing of other religions, or schools of thought. We all lived so much more simply, and innocently.

      The bells that sounded before I learned of: Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Santeria, Maoism, Taoism... Oh the superstition, the beautiful mythology. The bells that sounded before I overanalyzed everything. The bells that sounded before magnets were no longer miracles. The bells that sounded when magic existed, and the world held wonder. A time before mass communication.

     Bells ring for so many different reasons. Now they are ringing, as I write, calling the Worshippers to attend, to kneel, to be forgiven, and to forgive.

      Never mind what I believe. Every time I hear these bells I still feel younger.

Language Of The Crows

As the rose that rested on the pulpit unfurled

I saw galaxies in the petals, 
and smelled old hymn books and bibles.

Feathers fluttered from the
the vaulted ceiling,
The crows always got inside
and cawed -raucously cried.

The pews were hand carved hickory,

Rough-hewn and heavy

I watched in awe as
the women wept
and the men babbled
unintelligibly,

I didn't understand a word that flowed
from their crazed and rapturous maws,

They might as well have been
speaking the same language as those 
dark and hungry crows.

Neither believing, nor denying,
I silently sucked in that sweet opiate.