*+^me n ma rhymes....*+^

weird rhymes i make.....
I.

That lawyer’s cancer that thrived and burst unradiated;
some touristwho slipped off the cliff;
the housewifewho left her family for a boy her boy’s age;
the husband who gambled, stole,with the whole house of cards cascadingover his wife’s head.
We titter andchatter and wonder what happened.
So far, you and I have survived,
butI’m rather concerned:might you be next?

II.

In the dark room the film’s dipped in chemicals—
the light red as blood, as new life.
The bodies come forth joined out of the mud, from chaos.
Lines join legs to trunks, hands to chests, paper dolls cut out, fused.
It is them together.
Now they are stripped and left hanging on the line to dry.

III.

Slight as a word that just pushed its way out of thought;
fragile as a ladybug’s wings;
the shaking shroud of dropping dew inthe morning leftover from night;
the silver spider’s web built and brushed out of the spotless room;
the brittle silence of two lovers licking their wounds;
the flashof a falling star which everyone missed but one:
a girl witha razor sitting in the bathroom,the gentle rattle of a doorknob,the whispered inquiry, the blade grasped which cuts another palm,
the dangerous moment caught midairand set back down unbroken.

IV.

On an orb of darkness a single spark ignites,
a star from heaven wrapped in hay.
A sweet baby boy nurses at his mother’s breast,
wonder of kings with gifts and shepherds and beasts who kneel before Him.
Death lurks beyond the blessed crib:
Herod’s sword unsheathed to cut down children,
and the Christ Child Himself is guarded by angels.
Death waits, ravenous, but the Child will cheat the jealous lord of his prey and fulfill all promised to God’s whole people in Himself.
As He sleeps, the peace of the world begs to be born when He wakes.

V.

Curling, blackened paper; charred thought.
The whispers of ages crisp and whistle in the flames:
a bill of sale, a sermon, a dispatch for the troops,the love note of a voice slain again.
Fire licks the scrawls of writers felled by bulletsor in their beds, cleaning out their joy and rage
and sweeping their musings into ashes of oblivion.
Civic speeches flare with chemistry texts,
illustrated prayers glow beside invoices,and the courtship letters of husband and wife,
buried side by side,
ignite with desert tales of lust--
all erased by the match’s sandy flint,
crimson like a pencil’s rubber end.
The inferno gorges on phrases and commits them back to the earth which once bore their authors all alike--
wordless, with the inarticulate scream of birth.