“Poetry...useless but indispensable.” Jean Cocteau
“The Mystery of the Calling” by Kenny Moore
To stand in front of the emptiness week after week.
A desire to create.
A call to sharing.
The tingle of uncertainty is ever present.
The fear of failure looms in an intestinal knot.
The prospect of success bodes even more fearsome.
Why go through the exercise?
Why put pen to the ink?
What meaning has the colored brush for the virgin page?
It is the desire to bring forth.
The small belief that I have something new to offer.
The charisma from the gods bestowed with purpose.
The blood flows through my veins unawares.
The synapses pop, making connections unheard of.
The heart sustains a calling larger than myself.
The discomfort can be endured.
The uncertainty can be passed beyond.
What remains is the mystery of the calling.
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“Epiphany in Bed” by Kenny Moore
I did not rise early to meditate this morn,
But listened in bed to the pain of my wife
Talk of her loneliness
And feelings of unappreciation.
Her pain, the same as mine
Not cured by prayer
But outed in bedroom whisper
Devoid of marital bliss.
Her prayer resides
In words spoken in chaste embrace
Uttered before me, her less-than-divine spouse
Blanketed in defense and posture.
Her prayer, more real than mine
Confronts divinity in the now,
Requesting explanation,
Petitioning reconciliation for the rage.
Her soul more rich
Her piety, more real.
To pray with the person involved
Bespeaks the darkness upon our souls.
An epiphany in bed
I learn to listen and hold still.
God is present in the whisper
Revelation occurs in the dawn.
The prayer is one of pain
From wife who has depleted her gift.
The children, the house, the job,
Have taken and left her dry.
I Leave the bed, not to pray
Cupping her unappreciated soul.
Aware of my role as spouse
To buoy my bride, divine.
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“Maybe Dylan Thomas Was Right” by Kenny Moore
Lazarus was raised from the dead by Christ
Only to die again for good.
His sisters sat in disbelief upon his second death.
Dying can be temporarily suspended
But not indefinitely.
The raising of Lazarus - a mere prolepsis of Jesus’ own death and hope.
Maybe Dylan Thomas was right
That we should not go gentle into that good night
But rail, rage, rave at the dying of the light
Jesus railed from the cross.
The sisters of Lazarus raged at both his deaths.
Mary, seeing her boy’s heart pierced, raved at the cruel divine mystery.
Faith does not diminish the rage.
The closing of the light will always be met with sober doubt.
The gentle hands of providence will be administered with apparent cruelty
May my railing be full of faith.
May my raging be with intense compassion.
May my rave reviews be received and accompany me into the night.
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“Rocks Were Made For Throwing” by Kenny Moore
A moment of carelessness, the rock is thrown
The boy’s eye is wounded and bleeding.
Sight temporarily lost, flesh bulging as buffer
The journey of growth is at times perilous.
In ancient traditions, the boy David threw rocks
With sling and an eye for accuracy.
To protect his flock as well as pass the time
The skill proceeded with Divine plans underfoot.
Massive strength confronted by youthful alacrity.
The rock is thrown, the damage is done.
The sling in service of battle.
The boy in service of a destiny.
Rocks were made for throwing.
Carelessly as well as intentionally.
They all reach their mark
In the random Divine order of providence.
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“Prodigal Seed” by Kenny Moore
The yard lay blanketed with dirt
Loss of grass due to the digging.
My pre-nubile boys want to join in the work,
Fistfuls of seed - scattered on the soil.
Thrown wantonly, prodigally onto the moist, rich earth.
Father of their youth, I watch in symbolic awe
Of future seeds which will be theirs.
Just as copious, but not seeds of grass.
Future seeds of life, still undeveloped in the sac.
Forsworn to destiny’s future generation.
A loving, a coupling ... a child ensues.
Generated as randomly and wantonly as the grass.
Yet harbingers of life
Children of my children
Destined for future purpose...cause me to pause.
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“Community in a Corporate Guise” by Kenny Moore
My company’s heart skips a beat
As I cross corporate threshold each morn
Like the heart of an intimate
Pounds in the seeing of a beloved.
More than inanimate mortar
And cycles tuned to profit
Is a spirit that breathes and beats
A vibrancy of life and love.
Seeing me coming from afar
Its steel beams expand wide
Its cold marble seeps warmth
An embrace for a welcomed face.
I know what lies hidden to most
Resplendent with bounty
Alive and respondent
Caring for a cause.
Her beneficence is cloaked:
Livelihood to thousands
Purpose for the day
Expression to our talents.
Harbinger of the masses
May others greet you with embrace
Knowing your pain and longing
Community in a corporate guise.
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“To Knock and Ask and be Showered” by Kenny Moore
I wonder what Santa dresses up as...on Halloween
As he joins the crowds in costume and merriment?
A day for him to receive and accept
For others to treat him with kindness and beneficence.
I know what it’s like to be weary from giving
And pray for a day of reprieve.
A day to replenish the wellspring roots
Planted deeply, from which the giving force flows.
Who gives to the care-giver
When the gift has run dry?
Who nourishes the heart
That strains in the act of giving?
There is a flip-side of love
That aches and groans for release
The clogging of the soul
Which enjoins a proctologist’s skill.
A day of reprieve
To dress up and receive
To knock and ask and be showered
With the sweets of a caring hand.
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“Mendicant Heart” by Kenny Moore
Mendicant heart
Begging in the street,
Alms for the needy
Survival for the self.
St. Francis of the soul
Patron of the poor
Shower me with abundance
To feed the starving inside.
Poverty of self
The rich gift I proffer.
It is want which makes me rich
Loss which gives the gift.
God save me from the strong
From those who offer their strength.
Please send me the weak
Who offer what they themselves lack.
To be with me in my pain
Present in my poverty.
The true wealth of presence
To stand bye, weak and wounded.
Blessed are you who give to the poor,
Who draw from your reserve of pain.
It is richness and soothing balm
To be loved by such empty abundance.
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“Equally Flawed” by Kenny Moore
Peter betrayed the Lord three times before the cock crew.
Judas did the same for pieces of silver, three times ten.
Both forewarned; both foretold.
From where I sit, the two don’t sound all that apart.
One goes on to become pope
With slit wrist, the other to a potter’s field.
Doesn’t sound right to me.
Ain’t the Divine supposed to play it fair?
Pickin’ favorites violates the rules.
Maybe God don’t care much ‘bout denial.
She’s been around too long to be surprised.
Like a wife with a cheatin’ man.
It’s in the bones.
Promises don’t mean shit.
He’d do it again if he had the chance.
Two apostles, equally flawed.
One reaches out and gets promoted.
The other goes within and is self-slaughtered.
It’s not the God I don’t trust.
It’s the me within I need to fear
The one who’d rather slit than forgive.
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