Halo

Halo

There’s a halo around the moon
tonight – it signifies nothing of importance.
I’m in St. Patrick’s Church and

I’m looking out a stained glass window,
thinking about birds, when
I should be thinking about my faith.

The priest is reading: Faith
is the realization of what is
hoped for and evidence of things not seen.

Outside the window, cars pass:
headlights glaring through the blood
reds and forest greens, covering

the ceiling in light. The bells
are ringing out, distinct like the screams
of angels, roaring through the empty

atrium and I feel so alone in
my pew, kneeling and looking up,
praying for the first time

in years, crossing that Rubicon
of disbelief, venturing into the realm
of Faith, the one I’d been staring

at my whole life, always on
the verge but never having the courage
to just go – a child holding

a blackbird against his chest,
crying when his parents
yank his hands and the bird

flies away towards the light,
never to be seen again. I never know
if I’m the bird or the child.

First Post

Here it is.

I'll mostly be putting poems in here, but every once in awhile I might do a little commentary on what's happening in my life. Livejournal was just not cutting it for me.

Leave me a comment and let me know when you're reading, or what you're reading, or just anything about how you feel/ what you think about the writing and such.

Reconciliation

last night, in my dream
you were walking towards
a black Chrysler and
drove it into the snowy woods.
Even though we hadn’t spoken
in four years, there we were
in the car together,
and I could feel the winter breeze
blowing my hair back, as if
I were standing out the sunroof
like a teenager on prom night,
drunk off the majesty of
all things, but instead of happiness,
you kept driving, taking the black
Chrysler past my house into
a burning cornfield.

I don’t know why
my dreams always end like this,
someone from the past dying
in the front yard of my mind,
getting past the gate but
never making it to the door. Why
is it never me who meets with
a gruesome end, are the friends
I once had somehow less deserving
of a life in dreams?
I knew a guy whose father
was beheaded during an accident
involving a tractor trailer,
and the guy told me he pictured
his headless father standing at the gates
of Heaven, waiting for him when
he went to sleep. I like to think
that there would be some kind
of reconciliation between us before
we die, head and body coming
back together through the force of
our love, melding these different
dreams together until we are whole again.

Back in the real world
we still don’t talk, which is a shame
because you’ll never know
how in my dream, I pulled you
from the black Chrysler,
took your hand,
and walked with you into
the burning cornfield, the way
a father walks his daughter down the aisle.