I ask for no royalties! You may copy or quote any part of this work as long as you credit Alan Bruce for writing it. If you do, write me e-mail (mr_abruce@hotmail.com) saying that you are doing so.
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Pedalling under chestnut vaultings |
| All we, like moths, have gone to flame. Back-brain tugs urgently on loosening leash, Pulling us down the dark road, much traveled. We heedlessly flutter through these gilded ruins Where I do not want to fly, I go with bright gaze, In the dark, pinned wings struggle helplessly |
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I arrive early, turn on my machine, Pour myself a coffee and log myself in, Start surfing the net, reading the news, I notice my coffee is spilling, my eyes Filled with a terrible brightness, I am pushed forward and then I am struck As if by the hand of God Before I can turn around. or I am walking across the office, Greeting co-workers cordially, When there is a roar, A blast, a flower of flame, like The wrath of God which plucks Me from the floor, I feel, flung, My body burning before A sudden silence or Smoke pours from below, The astonished faces as The floor falls like a cookie Dunked in tea, pieces breaking Away into darkness behind me, And I know the sunny city Below will never be seen again By my eyes, and I leap Into air, my breath taken As I tumble. Then, always, then, They are firm, but polite, (Cherubim are always thus) Guiding me forwards. This place seems familiar, The place of my nightmares. "You don't seem to be listed." I panic, I point to the book, "I'm sure there's a mistake, Perhaps look under Allen, Or maybe Martin, I Might be mis-listed!" I feel firm hands on my arms, "There's no mistake, Please come with us." And I am taken, terrified Downwards, My only insight Is in the sounds I hear, Knowing at last what It meant when I read of Teeth gnashing. |
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It is of razor blades And of blinding light It is of pain and joy Following fast and also It is of silence and mist On moonlit fields. It is of achievement, And of awards and fame, But it is more of failure, And the racking sobs Of finally, finally giving up. It is of love and longing, The completed and The incomplete, The blood that spills, The smile on dry lips. This is good, this Can be bottled, Going to the highest bidder But for the fact It never happens When I want it; But for the fact There's never enough Inconvenient joy, Stagnant silence, Meaningless success, Significant failures, Always waiting for What I don't know, Never in control, Never satisfied, Like the grave, Always hungry This is a crumpling of my priceless life In my angry, punching hands, I am aiming carefully over my Shoulder all that I am, wanting To throw it behind me, wanting Desperately to change it all Like a pair of worn pants, To shrug it off like a faded coat, To step out naked of expectation In the small, hairless body of a child, Unscarred by joy and innocent of pain I am so tired, but I cannot sleep. I plan but you always direct. From my mother's womb I Have been cast upon you; If this is how you love me, I do not understand How anyone could want an eternity. Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani -- Or perhaps just leave me alone. |
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No doubt I am being foolish For my clustered suspicions; No doubt you will forgive Graciously as you have Doubtless done many times Before my futile little life. No doubt I will discover, My glances askance unfounded; No doubt I shall someday know, My skeptic heart an embarrassment; Doubtless I will one day regret it, Roundly chastised with Thomas. No doubt it will seem foolish To ask for your forbearance; No doubt you will shake your Wise head when I ask to be Doubtless in this clouded life, When I beg to have no doubt. |
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I ran, Tired of your house, Looking for something Different, new, unknown; Pursuing Pleasure. I ran down many strange streets; I wove my hurried steps through Barefoot children and businessmen. Stopping to rest, I saw you there. I panicked; I ran, Ducked down an alley, Your footsteps following; Now I was the pursued. I hid, In bingo halls and brothels, But you stood patiently outside. In taverns and nightclubs, You were smiling at the door. I drove down winding highways, Afraid to stop for fear Of meeting your intense gaze In truck-stop diner or dingy motel. You were relentless in your mercy, Unflinching in your grace. And at last I came to the end, Not of the Earth, but of myself. Broken down on the shoulder, Slumped against a rusted fender, I saw your figure on the Twilight highway running Running to welcome me home. They say if you go far enough away, You'll return home over the curved Hip of the world. But with you, It is different; two steps After turning I'm in your Forgiving arms. |
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The spring winds rush buffeting Tonight past her house, an Invisible stampede of Aolean horses Running, funneling through the valley Manes and tails swept back and streaming The shale only slightly rattling under their Multitudinous hoofbeats. She stares through her walls And hears the forest calling The soft sighs of needled branches Telling of the passing of horses Sweeping through her valley On their eager way home. Her distant eyes wander, Seeing no ceiling, Only mountaintops that Stand naked except for Diaphanous wrappings of Curling mists, Protectively carrying upon their Craggy shoulders the shaggy green Forests that roll on and over The silent granite sentinals -- And she is sweeping Through her valley Upon the backs of Aolean horses On their eager way homeward To the Storehouses of God. |
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I strut my minutes on this cluttered stage But my brittle postures bear no touch; A fragile royalty, I toy listlessly with Abdication or some such default without Achieving aught. I must always apologize for Inability or some such fault which I cannot Comprehend or control, nor have I Desire to come into contact with such Within me. I cannot grapple With usurpers or those who would accuse. A hemophiliac Hamlet, I must shake my pallid Fist gently and be carried on a pallet in my malady To chapels perilously close to brutal touch by Unforgiving fingers who would cut More than the pound I have paid for my Failures and foolish desires for grails beyond My wasted royalty's reach. I fish desperately For hints of help as I lapse into the sleep That surrounds my empty postures upon This strange shrinking stage, collapsing like Cards amongst the clutter of castoffs into A brittle heap of clattering remains which Are such stuff as fires are made of. |
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O Lord I will praise you Although I don't understand; In my darkness I will Sing praises to your name. O my Maker, you are mighty; The storms obey your commands. How shall I stand in your presence? Who can see your face and live? My Lord, I am exceedingly small; My spirit is lost among millions. Who will notice my absence? Who will remember my face when I'm gone? My Master, Your will is supreme; My steps shall be guided by your hand. They go down to death Who would disobey your commands. O mighty Sir, I beg You humbly, Notice this speck of your making; I am so without understanding that Your silence seems cruel. In this world, will we hear you? In this life, will we see you? Do you leave only clues to follow To a faith without human sight? |
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He is Mighty. (yes, yes) He is Good. (yes, yes) I know I plan my path, (of course) But he directs my steps. He, in His infinite all knowing divine benevolence, Thought it good to create us flawed with Chafing freedom with the godlike force Of choice to freely choose Him-- (He is Good, yes, yes) -- or what? (pardon?) -- or what? (what?) Choose Him -- or what? Cacophonous keening of lost millions Fills my ears from millenia of sin. Choose His way, the (yes, yes) right way, His Lordly kindness drawing us with cords of Love To his softly feathered bosom or -- I want (do you dare?) to choose (do you understand?) to know Him (don't you know the story of bright Luciferus?) as I am known by Him. What choice, Sir, most respectfully, Sir, Do you give me, most low, most small, (most easily killed, like a mosquito) most Unworthy -- to choose? How can I love one I have not seen? And how can I not chafe Beaneath your "choice" Of your Way or Hell? How can I, sir, know you, Even you, who sticks closer Than my brother When you play games With silence and Ask me to be content With gifts as from A rich uncle in faraway lands? Perhaps (more than likely) I am stumble-blind ("you have eyes yet cannot see") To your GLORY ("blessed are those who have not seen") And deaf to your voice ("but don't you have His Word?") When you say, so clearly: |
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The most resistant strain cannot be eliminated multiplies and breeds swarms unchecked feeding and breeding excreting and carving through its dying host. This is pestilence, this is plague; this greedy two-legged creature known as human. I could be a suicide bomber I could build the gas chambers I could pull the trigger I could push the Button only if the solution was final the deed was complete no human stood living and the quiet earth would trace her empty path through the starry sky. |
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Suspended in the gel of my mediocrity, Lulled, I don't struggle much. Frozen hours drip into puddles of seasons; As if dreaming, caught, I can't move, mired. I watch the petals of spring pile In pink drifts on forgetful pavement. I'm expecting something that never happens Or perhaps is happening, but is passing me, Like the crowded years that Gather like autumnal leaves Only to scatter with winter's breath. I am only a gravestone Waiting to happen Carved with terse verses Needing only a second date To be complete. "My reader, realize These words are my only Accomplishment. I lived, I loved, I longed Tepidly, vaguely, Without valid passion, And I hope only These children, my words, Live better lives than I did. No hero, I will hang my head Ashamed at the throne, No gains, my gold Buried then forgotten Better given to another." |