Sweetest Mother

From your favoured seat behind the most exalted throne,
Whisper gently to your son
“He has no wine”.
And, I will do his bidding –
Petty piece of pottery!
Now stained
Rings of long neglected watermarks
Of the first flushing out
Of earthly dregs and grime.

I’ll fill to the brim
From Jacob’s well
Sparking waters that give life.
Wait breathlessly for his command
To turn the water into wine.

Little Spec of Dust

Little spec of dust
Whence came you?

“O I blew in
On the last gust of wind
That wantonly carried me
This way, that and in a swoon.

Again it rolls me up,
Spins me back to whence I came.

So, I go round and round
When the great gust
Will blow me far far
Into the Sun’s blinding darkness.”

The Way To Dusty Death

I asked the mountain to move
and a rock landed on me,
transfixing me to the desert sands;
a mill-stone of my own making.

Parched, I cannot move;
the weight of yesterdays sink deeply
deeply to my soul.
If motionless, I find relief.
I relax and let go.

A distant cloud bursts
and a gentle zephyr brings the text
“In you I am well pleased”.
Is this the way to dusty death?

Contemplating My Prostate

The prostate is ego-bloated.
It restricts flow;
Voidance that should rinse and purge
Limbs and members of that one vine.

Placed for one purpose,
But it grows!
Disproportionate to its first intent;
Imperiously determining
What should shut and what may go.
Oblivious to all,
It turns, cogitates, and issues sparks
Of delusion.

This agent of the spectre of darkness
Must be suppressed at once!
Bring tacks
Make incisions,
Reduce the size of this bloatedness.
Be cruel but kind
And save from implosions and descent to hell.