Daniel David

Tired Jehovah

 

Please, allow me to explain: I was simply exhausted,

a damn tired Jehovah. The worry, the burden for each

joy, grief, birth, death, relentlessly tedious reincarnation,

too much, I left, I hid, a recreant creator.

 

Much too young to apprehend, when there was nothing, when

I sat alone in black abyss (Hesiod’s Nyx, quite the bore),

my room far too monkish, the décor, modern minimalism,

I pined for Victorian knickknack.

 

The stars, sun and moon took longer than expected;

all the rest was afterthought, celestial procrastination.

I did not foresee the task of empathy essential for every

 

crawling worm, snail, cricket, every sleek, magnificent leopard,

every walking, talking child, astonishing parcels of neurons.

Please! I am not responsible – all this beauty! I never presumed

to be your mother, your father, certainly not your savior.

Kisses in the Desert

 

There must be kisses in the desert,

A presumptuous sun’s insistence,

Relentless, fiery, swirling tongue,

Kisses licking on the wind,

Sand planted on the kisser,

Perfunctory smacks, searing pecks;

Kissed greetings between robed men,

Course beards rubbing fierce cheeks;

Wet smooches nuzzling necks,

A twisted, medieval knife,

Puckering and parting flesh,

Grisly kisses tasting dark, red

Wine splashed about the mouth;

Grinding osculations, clashing teeth,

Unacquainted noses knocked together,

His vicious kisses burrowing beneath

Her chador, vicious kisses for woman, Jew

Christian, vicious kisses for any other sect;

And swollen lips brushed along

Brow, breasts, belly, hips, splitting

Thighs, kisses catching breath,

Kisses of steel, of brass, of lead, kisses

Showered from guns, jets and drones.

Cupid, your kisses pierce my heart!

There must be kisses in the desert,

Still, between young lovers,

Unscathed kisses, guileless, ardent

Lips finding a soft niche,

A cupped palm, a slender wrist,

Kisses landing on heavy lids,

Kisses where the throat curves,

Kisses where we are still vulnerable.

 
Your Piety

Your piety, blind sword wielded in temple, church, mosque,

in vast expanse of desert, desolate sanctum sanctorum,

must end. I suppose, though fatuous in pursuit, I appreciate

the adoration, sanctimonious aspiration. Worse is your

slaughter over my flawed image, passé, tarnished icon.

Do you recall my face  before this fixation, without

the beard, a doting young man, a tender good shepherd,

in amiable apse mosaic, before my stern, judgmental eye,

severed saved from damned on endless abbey tympanum?

I’m sure you find solace in elaborate ritual, rabid dogma,

obscure scripture, but I ask you, will you study the codex

of the heart, simple verses of compassion? Whose head

will you swap for my visage? Your zeal requires too much

suffering over who owns love.

 
 
 

THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

© 2015 by William Ray