The Prodigal

In my Bible,
Delicate swirls and curves of a long lost pen
 wrote:

Even when we are at our lowest point

God will take us back.

But do I want to return

  to His arms?

In Memory

Remember this moment.
the warmth of bread
      filling.

Remember this moment.
the tangy wine
     lingering.

Remember this moment.
your heart's silence
    at peace



The moment is gone
    and yet...

   Remember

Hail Mary

Joy.

Contentment.

Peace.

Soothing Psalms gliding over a troubled soul
as bruised knees press darkened wood.

Will I remember today,

in the Hell of tomorrow?

memories

The noodles of my brain
     sit in a colander
      dripping away
         memories.

the church kitchen

The fruit 

must be broken,

peeled,

mashed,

before 

the Flesh

can be 

eaten.

The body of Christ broken for you.

Pieces

You tore my heart
   cut so carefully
with dulled blue scissors.

Response to Lizzie's poem

Old People on Benches

A haggard man drinks coffee on a bench
Wearing a Stop & Shop apron,
Smoking.

Across the center
A prim old lady
Positions her body away from him.
---------------------------------
Richard

Captain of the football team
Rugged, handsome
Straight A's

Voted most likely to succeed, and leave,
The Town's pride and joy
Oldest son


Sitting, 50 years later, on the same bench
where he heard of death's spite
stealing away his future.

Frozen in time, left to rot away years in an apron,
Smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee,
As he dreams.

Response to Christy's Poem

Christy's Poem

the blue pen
gripped
between dry
fingers


-------------------
At her desk

As shaking hands grasp
The blue pen,
A halo illuminates
The ragged pages.

Peaceful beams
Casting shadows,
Into her final darkness.
It is hard to say goodbye.

Homeward Bound

Muddy boots taint
    fallen snow
Lying across the path
    glittering
In the pale light.

Walking the Street

Pigeon shit mingles
With the stench of his hat,
On the cobble stones.

On the steps of St. Paul

Moldy crackers scattered for pigeons,
Stripped flesh consumed.

Her Teacup

Worn, creased hands
      cradling
A porcelain teacup

Holes in a Trash bag

Truths hidden 'neath the surface
Of a cooling glass bottle's
Tinkling shards.

Searching for Truth

A voiceless teacher waves his hands
As slumbering students
Dream of answers.