Author Archives: huldustrider

Third Week Of March

Spring comes down like an airstrike

To the white unready earth

And fells the frozen powers

All in a single evening.

 

Makes the sleeping fields to shine

Brimming bright with their delight

Makes their joy to overflow

And sets the ditches singing.

 

Tonight the world is trembling

As that laughter is released

To shake from their foundations

All the little works of men.

 

And tonight I wonder

If this is how it will end

In ever-swifter swingings

Of its sorrows into joys.


Lent 2019

His love’s a blade this time of year.

Bright as the vernal equinox

Cold as the rain that ends the snow

Hard as the howling Lenten wind.

 

He made that blade to break my heart

To cut a furrow deep and straight

Beneath the salt and cigarettes

Into the darkness where I sleep.

 

To find and lay beneath the sun

All that which I have hidden there

All the buried coins and corpses

Secrets scattered to the seagulls.

 

Here his love comes, belching diesel

To till the fields of no-man’s-land

Pouring into my ripped-up heart

Seeds by the hundred million.


Ash Wednesday 2019

All our roads go wrong;
All our highways ever bending
All our shortcuts never ending
All our roads go wrong.

All we make, we mar;
All our weaving ever rending
With disaster ever trending
All we make, we mar.

All our towers fall;
All our heights ever descending
Our facades so well pretending
All our towers fall.

But there is one who

Takes the bent and keeps on bending
Takes the rent and keeps on rending
Dies with us and keeps descending
Till we reach our never-ending.


Transubstantiation

I sat with her today

In that last awful place

Counting the bones between

The lines upon her face.

 

Now I don’t know what happens

To the bread or to the wine

But You were with her today

And with her You were dying.


It’s Human

It’s human to be tired

It’s human to be cold

It’s human to be lonely

It’s human to get old.

 

It’s human to be losing

It’s human to get lost

And it’s human not to have

What being human costs.

 

It’s human to need saving

It’s human to be saved

It’s human to be carried

From the cradle to the grave.

 

It’s human to be dying

It’s human to be raised

It is human not to be

Who is worthy to be praised.


Desert Children

They raise up their walls around me

Thick and high and silent

A monastery so remote,

So removed from the world.

 

The Desert Children’s rule is strict.

The day is long and hard

There is nothing here not simple,

Nothing here that’s easy.

 

The day begins before the sun,

Ends after its setting.

Every minute in between is

A rough and holy thing.

 

They teach things I do not know

How to need, how to ask

How to accept, how to enjoy

How to receive a gift.

 

It is a long and lonely way

That some nights I can’t walk

So while the Desert Children sleep

I slip over the wall,

 

A stranger to the world outside,

Speak strangely of strange things

Speaking nursery rhymes to power.

Occupied with smallness.

 

But long before the sun comes up

I’m longing to return

To seek their sacred littleness,

The littleness I’d learn.


Supported Vacation

“I know myself” he says to me
Every time I try to guide him
He cannot think of any need
For anyone beside him.

I can think of hundreds,
Thousands, given time:
Murder, theft and multitudes
That can’t be made to rhyme.

For he may know himself, but not
The city, state or nation
Mostly blind and mostly deaf,
Hence “Supported Vacation”.

He could be made a victim
In a dozen different ways
But of us two in Central Park
I am the one afraid.

But I saw Times Square divide for him
And 30 Rock bow down
Before his perfect liberty
The Statue cast her crown.

“I know myself,” he says again
And we are silenced by his claim.
For neither I nor New York City
Would dare to say the same.