I haven’t been writing on here in a while, and I know. Laziness, I guess. Anyway, I wanted to keep any readers out there up to date on some current projects and ideas that I have in the mix. First, my wife and I are moving next week, so I probably won’t be posting much (if anything at all ) on here until after that move. But we have decided that once things are up and running at the new place, we’ll start doing a series of posts. The way this will work is my wife will give me three words – they could be objects, people, places, or ideas – and then I will write a story based around those three words. This story will be posted on the site. This won’t be every day, but maybe every two or three days so that a steady stream of posts will be flowing onto the site. Also, I have a project I’m currently working on and contemplating that will be a mystery/thriller/detective story. I haven’t written anything solid yet, but I have been sketching some key plot points and ideas in my notebook. Maybe in a month or so that story will be on here for some critiquing. Anyway, that’s all that ‘s going on right now. Thanks for reading!
There has been a lot of talk in recent years about the Gnostic Gospels, the life of Jesus in his early years, the authority and accuracy of the traditional Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John), and other related issues. A lot of people have flocked to the likes of Deepak Chopra and others who claim to know the “real” story of Jesus. This got me thinking. I mean, it’s not as if these things are exactly new ideas. People have been undermining the truth of Biblical accounts for centuries and disagreeing with the stories presented in the traditional Gospels. But why, I asked myself, are these ideas given so much credence in today’s time? Why are so many people flocking to the likes of Chopra and New Age gnostics? And I think, at the heart of it, it’s the spirit of our age – Postmodernism/ Deconstructionism – that has given rise to such widespread acceptance of these “secret” Gospels. (more…)
An earthy terrain
with sparse trees of hair.
has at its base a
mountain – there are five.
Beneath the surface,
rivers make blue trails.
On the underside,
the ridges form a
map of altitude.
And yet, each schoolchild
knows this land. They have
traced its shape: a plump
One head, four feathers
splayed – a prideful pose.
Add light and shadow
and it becomes a
rabbit or a dog.
This hand, indeed, can
Clenched into a ball,
my hand’s a weapon
after school. Yet with
it open I can
greet family or
friends. A changing shape,
hand is a shaper
of who I could be.
is scratched metal.
Splinters of light bend and refract,
radiating outward in concentric circles
so that, no matter where
you look, it seems as if you
are staring at the sun
– though less bright –
and all the circles of light
are planets trekking their
ways across the galaxy of
polished gray steel.
A nebula of cloudy,
milk-white steam engulfs
the countertop as the cook,
a sweaty and rushing
linebacker of a man,
slams down a basket o’ fries and
disturbs the universe.
The room is dominated by a crucifix
crucified to the wall.
At the front of the aisle,
the preacher stands.
His feet shuffle on the carpet.
His arms raise toward Heaven.
A tingle creeps up my arms,
the details of crucifixion
making themselves known along my skin.
Sitting on the hardwood pew,
my feet barely touch carpet.
The girl beside me picks at her hangnails.
The Preacher moves down the aisle
amidst hallelujah!s and amen!s,
pointing at the crucifix looming
in the background, slapping his palm
against his Bible, mimicking nails.
I stare at the carpet.
A carpet of dryness grows inside my mouth
as the Preacher makes his way
down the aisle. A line of sweat grows
in the crux of my back
as the shadow of the crucifix
leans over the congregation.
Moving back toward the crucifix
at the front of the aisle, the Preacher
makes dark tracks in the carpet.
Arms raise like Hosanna palm
branches as he begins to pray,
beckoning converts with arcs of his arm.
The crucifix sits affixed to the wall, nailed
to plaster and wooden beams. I walk
toward it and the preacher, making the slow
pilgrimage of new believers, carving my own dark
tracks into the carpet.
I raise my arms.
The cemetery was gray, or maybe that’s just the way I remember it. It’d had the feelings of ghosts and lonely corpses even though the sky was clear and the grass was green. I remember seeing a mound of sand, all brown and soil-black, where the gravediggers had cleared a fresh space for him. I imagined that it smelled like vegetables in the hopes that maybe he’d feel somewhat at home there, in the ground. My grandfather had been an excellent cook.
My mind found solace in the afterward,
when we drove away from the gravesite.
My grandfather, resting where he preferred,
Lay beneath the ground – interred
in Camp Lejeune. As I slept that night,
my mind found solace. In the afterward -
in the nights that followed, absurd
visions seemed to fill my sight:
my grandfather. Resting where he preferred,
my father would be awakened when he heard
my cries. His comfort always made it right.
My mind found solace in the afterward.
When my father told me of his death, when I first heard,
my mother said “he’s gone to be with the Light,
Grandfather is resting where He prefers,”
I thought: he’s gone away, like a bird
whose swift movements betray its fright.
But my mind found solace in the afterward.
My grandfather was resting where he preferred.