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Of Starry Pixels

The Wise Men of old beheld a star,
Named and ordained
Light years of old.
They divined a birth.

The years of faces buried in tomes
Of great lore, mystic meditation,
And in skies of wonder,
Led to epiphany.

Behold! A new heavens and a new earth.

And we, in this brave new world,
Do seek our enlightenment,
As we too, with faces buried
In skies of wonder,

Of starry pixels,
Dotted across the expanse
Of black screens
Of plasma and plastic,

Behold the new heavens.

Should we look up
For a moment,
We would lose sight
Of our cosmos, our creation,

Our flesh made word;
Disincarnate; reality made virtual,
Heavens made space,
Space made cyber.

Behold the new earth.

Bring your gifts from afar
And rejoice in the constellations
Of individuals networked,
In ethereal formations,

Of thumbs up and thumbs down –
Those five fingered
Keepers of orthodoxy.
But where do they point?

To heaven or hell?

Begin With It Is Finished

At the end of a pregnancy, all fears abated and a healthy baby;
At the end of school, hearing a bell or framing a diploma;

At the end of a day, working to see the clock strike whatever;
At the end of a week, working for the weekend;

At the end of pain, a broken bone mended or bad part removed;
At the end of stress and distress, feeling sweet relief;

At the end of a life, few regrets and many memories;
Nothing is as joyful as the words, ‘It is finished;’

Live in joy, for those words have already been said.
Do not end with ‘It is finished,’ but there begin.

Known Obscurity

I walk through a teeming mall;
No one knows my name, my life;
I sense obscurity; my countenance falls;
Then I see my wife.

The mass of people fades,
Becoming a loud background.
For one in a thousand says
My name, and I feel that I’ve been found.

Unknown to masses all around,
yet I feel love and personality.
For at least one in the crowd
Knows everything about me.

So it is with all that is unknown,
forgotten, and obscure,
If they know the One
Who knows their name and numbers their very hairs.

A Song Not of Myself

I will write of myself and sing of myself.
I will breathe of myself and dream of myself.
I will celebrate my self-centered yawp,
And reap my self-thinking crop.
All assume my assumptions and grow in this soil,
And are anointed with the same self-oil.

As I sit down to write, I find myself a hero.
As I lay down to sleep, I fancy I’m Nero –
King of my castle, and Lord of my empire,
Holder of destinies and all that inspires.
My thoughts run steady on their track,
And always find their way back, to this cul de sac.

When will I make the circle, and learn the blessedness
Of self-forgetfulness?
Only when I find a more worthy object for reflection,
Will I know the expulsive power of a new affection,
And find a song not of myself,
But of mental health, and love itself.

Jacked Up

It was jacked up, that old van,
Was there ever a time when it really ran?
Perhaps there was, but no one remembers.
It had been jacked up for too many Decembers.

It was jacked up, that old van,
Rusted out like an antique beer can.
The engine hanging out, the tires all flat,
A bird’s nest in the passenger’s seat, wasps’ nest in the back

It was jacked up, that old van,
But then along came a wonderworking man,
Who took a fancy to it for reasons that defy,
And gave up his fortune to make it fly.

It was jacked up, that new van,
remade, at great cost, by the wonderworking man,
With a new engine, still held up and on track,
But this time by a different jack.