Thereforever I bewildered of the answer unfulfillered
To the question never nearer near to me than to my dearer
Answer there presented me the clever never foolery
The key to meaning's door betrayed me never near to thee it bade me
Yet the quest I daily heeded as love was all I ever needed
Had Jesus all the secrets held in perfect perfectness untelled?
Well not at all to my surprise, twas not good diet, nor exercize
Did not I find the answer heaven, nor which plus five makes forty-seven
What was all this living for, if making love instead of war
Made babies all the evermore? Exponential needy roar
Making warts and killing doves, succeeded we in forging loves
Forevermore we ever lurched from heaves of grace through lands unchurched
Till tossed was I like cookies from the Budda’s holly jolly bum
And crept through zealous spew toward the slave's eternal just reward
To find I'd lost in kind of frost a curiousness never crossed
And lived I evermore bewildered, cared not for answer unfufillered
MONDAY, MAY 10, 2010
© Laura Merzig Fabrycky
Failing in Wartime
It has never not been wartime.
They have always been dying and
rib-cage-gasps of lament.
And I have been idle at my computer,
checking my Facebook account for
the latest distraction from the terror,
women and children trafficked,
the cruel and nearly pitied lives.
Hands outstretched to my closed
driver’s side window.
The locked door.
I cannot breathe this kind of air for long.
What is required?
What can one do in
wartime when it is all wartime?
I hold them responsible. All thems.
TUESDAY, MAY 4, 2010
© Laura Merzig Fabrycky
Praise for the Master
You, the Storyteller!
You, the Poet!
Great crafter of beauty and intrigue
and the framing of images
before the mind's eye of the
awake and the alive,
or the awakening and the enlivening
or the asleep and the near dead.
You call us up, out, and through
to images, to the fiery, detailed grandeur
of the story,
the words—jewels of your love.
you are good,
over and through
You, the Creator of Creation!
You, the Creator of Context and Co-Creation,
and of Co-Creators
You, the Envisioner of Imagination:
l'histoire et de poésie--
explicit and tacit
lived and experienced--
we move within the pages of your verse,
rest within the gulleys of your impasto
on the yet-dried canvas in your studio,
dance to the movement of your strings played
by the heavenly spheres,
tread with fear within
your language, yours words, and your language beyond language,
to find we are undone and remade by
the play of it all
the staging and lights
(alongside its frightful reality).
We are living,
awed by your mastery.
By an abandoned orchard,
of the forest trail,
toward the peaks
in silver grass
in the hillside womb of afternoon;
the peace of death
curls around him
far from the
of the world.
Silent now are the voices
that preached love,
but killed him.
To download the whole collection, click link below:
For Trevor (14 yrs old)
the swallow falls
Glass cavern walls
shocks of air,
and a garden wall
cries of the heart
greater than any pain
echo through the empty city
To Download the whole collection, click the link below:
God sent snakes.
Killed the bastards
just because their
What did they expect?
I can hear them now:
“We didn’t sign up for
We anticipated a triumphant procession
into a plush and plenty
We had enough suffering
in the Old Country”
I don’t blame God, really.
I can feel my own vindictive
bile rise when they
bitch like condo owners at an AGM.
But come now, God! Let us reason together;
I want to let go of my judgmental
And you ...
Are you so high and mighty that you can
just off anyone who complains
because they are
threatened with starvation?
Why should I trust you with
my very guts
if I can’t even
"It is Completely Fire" Katie Kilcup
Icon: Maximos the Confessor
We are the made makers,
the makers of the made.
We cannot make geese
or the infinite web of feathers
and wind tangled in blades
or thickets of slight sun
wavering in underwater labyrinths.
We make the second made,
feather pillows and forks,
skyscrapers and silly-putty.
The given we have taken
and baked in the furnace mind,
until the tangle of the original
is laid straight in rulers,
We are the puppet makers,
The grid of intention cages us,
beautiful parrots, glorious in color and song,
our language longs for height.
We are the made making,
furious with brows furrowed,
the sea escapes our cups.
The Distant Wind
It's because of the flatness all about, beyond these green hills
that bulge up along the thrashing river,
It's because of the distant flatness and the way
the wild wind whips past that brings this hissing in the trees,
This constant motion, that lifts the turkey vultures,
that brings the rumbling thunder, that makes
Trees fall broken-hearted, trees that had once sprung up
curving their roots around and under solid granite.
It's because of the song that lifts through my larynx,
the wind that enters the flow of wind,
And where this wind comes from and where it goes,
singing notes that called into being these very notes within.
It's because of the sweet motion of the river that lifts up
singing through the wind's song with its own rushing
And that of the sea to which it flows.
I wait below. If you hear me sing you'll know
It's not my song alone: I'm singing the wind;
I'm singing the sound of the waters;
I'm singing you home.
You were the one whose name I heard
when the wind moved through the valley.
I heard the trees whisper it, but
you weren't listening at the time.
The moon kept pouring more and more
silver into the sleeping lake.
I saw your eyes snap open:
That's when you began to shimmer.
See how the waters wait for your voice's ripple.
See how the still waters shine back the light.
We found the finch,
eyes clear but wings
limp as string,
its spindly feet
twisted in wire.
you were quick to stroke
then you hung back:
the small body
fluttered to the oak.
You wear your fatigue
like feathers; I stretch
out my hand; your feet
lock in to what snares
you even more.
With your every twist
my heart is pierced
If you were someday
to rise out of the foaming waters of the sea
to count the stones and broken shells of my heart,
If you were to listen there
and to separate the gull’s cry
from the sucking sounds of stones beneath inhaling waves,
If only you were there at night
when shivering stars gaze with longing,
if you added your breath to the wind that tangles my hair
And strokes my neck with cold fingers,
then you would lift the pebbles to expose the sand
ground to softness by weather.
Once home in your room
you would put the spiraled shell to your ear
and listen to my whispered lament.
You would unwind the ribbon of kelp
from your heart and reveal the cords
that bind it to my own.
The year begins with war.
Our bombs fall day and night,
Hour after hour, by death
Abroad appeasing wrath,
Folly, and greed at home.
Upon our giddy tower
We’d oversway the world.
Our hate comes down to kill
Those whom we do not see,
For we have given up
Our sight to those in power
And to machines, and now
Are blind to all the world.
This is a nation where
No lovely thing can last.
We trample, gouge, and blast;
The people leave the land;
The land flows to the sea.
Fine men and women die,
The fine old houses fall,
The fine old trees come down:
Highway and shopping mall
Still guarantee the right
And liberty to be
A peaceful murderer,
A murderous worshipper,
A slender glutton, or
A healthy whore. Forgiving
No enemy, forgiven
By none, we live the death
Of liberty become
What we have feared to be.
-Wendell Berry, 1991
The Heretical Commentary: Essay 1
"Why do you live like you're going to die, Alfred?"
Heresy comes to mind when I think about the insanity of actually making this internal inquiry public.
I'm either losing my mind or actually beginning to get it back "...for this was not revealed to" me "by flesh and blood, but by" the everlasting "Father in heaven."
We exhaust ourselves trying to mend the veil that tore when He died.
Are we mending the veil so we can hide behind it like Adam and Eve hid behind the bush?
We toil....and in this vain effort...we tire ourselves in mind, body and spirit...and we tire those around us.
Too tired to love...both God and neighbor.
The 'found' get lost.
We make His words good advice rather than good news. And the yoke just gets heavier and heavier.
The Sabbath becomes a day, rather than the Way.
Are we walking out of the Garden....again?
It's right in front of you Adam.
It's right in front of you Eve.
The Spirit whispers and the snakes yell....but don't be distracted...not now.
Seek first the firstborn of the dead...
See your life in His life and find life, abundantly....
"Why do you live like you're going to die?"
One day I heard a whisper: ‘Wherefore wait?
Why linger in a separate porch?
Why nurse the flicker of a severed torch?
The fire is there, ablaze beyond the gate.
Why tremble, foolish soul? Why hesitate?
However faint the knock, it will be heard.’
I knocked, and swiftly came the answering word,
Which bade me enter to my own estate.
Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.
“A guest,” I answer'd, “worthy to be here”;
Love said, “You shall be he.”
“I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.”
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
“Who made the eyes but I?”
“Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.”
“And know you not,” says Love, “who bore the blame?”
“My dear, then I will serve.”
“You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat.”So I did sit and eat.