Seven Poems of Anxiety

THE GATES OF HELL

The Gates of Hell withstood
The feeble onslaughts
Of our church quite well.
We dwelt together
In layers of misunderstanding,
People like hummingbirds
That would sip the fellowship

And then be gone
Quicker than eye could see
Or call could follow.
Beaverlike some would seek
To improve our weak foundations,
Buttressing here and digging there
But there were so many,

And they destroyed each others's
Work till none of it could stand.
Finally, with the first strong rain,
The structure crumbled and the flood
Flashed through our foyer
And sanctuary, sweeping them clean
Of the remnant in its very last days.

8-5-90

AWAKENINGS

(Meditations on Romans 7:7-13)

He awakened before four hundred
Prisoners, a dream world wherein
They all looked toward him
As a heavenly indication
Of what was right. He was raised
Above them on a dais
And felt compelled

Through the words he uttered
To tell them of covetousness
As a great danger.
The reality of it,
Feverish to the touch
To sere us awake
Before we die.

There is time to change:
We hear the bell and someone
Who dwells beside us shakes
Us awake to the sense of sin
That we may draw back
Our hand. There is a choice
Involved, Holy and true,

When they in the course
Of things rush back out
Where sin seems beautiful
And displays its charms.
Will they hold fast to statutes
Of the Lord and run in the path
Of His commands with a heart set free?

11-8-90

THE LAST SIGN

The last sign was past,
"Seventy miles to next gas."
It didn't matter
That our gauge read "lo."
We wouldn't come
This way again:
We were old

With stiffening
Hind quarters.
I pulled off the road
To follow a jeep trail
That led no place
Clear to us; perhaps
It was a way to find

Opal or ancient Jasper.
There was no shade
Where we parked,
But it was possible,
Being the late Fall,
To climb a bare hill

Against the wind's buffet
And sand's blast
And hear the moaning
Of an old Earth
Tired of bitterness,
Sick with feculent thickness,
And blind to its own gorge.

11-9-90

SEA VIEW

The sea is deep blue-green here,
Looking upward past the barnacle
Encrusted rudder, and even
Deeper green beneath
The pendulous bearded keel.
Great herds of mussel
Can be pulled loose and assembled

In baskets for later use
As bait far out by the break
Water -- placed gently on treble
Hooks and let down in hope
That a great barn door
Of a halibut will see them
Before the ubiquitous Tom Cod

And Spanish Mackerel.
The fog horn, transcendent
Slow beating alarm clock,
Grates me aware like an anchor
Slipping loose and dragging
Across the dark bottom
Where the muck and ooze

Like a living thing, has sucked
Me down toward a quicksand
Oblivion. But in the soft slosh
Of my boat riding at anchor
There is something I must do:
Get up, sail toward some commitment
That will not go away, that waits

For my recollection. The haze
Seems eternal and limits vision
Beyond the half day boat
Passing outside the breakwater,
Intent on a contest off
Point Fermin or Whites Point.
They have a purpose standing

With poles like rifles, at attention,
Staring out uncaring at all they pass
Till their special time of deep-sea
Battle, pitying me perhaps, if they notice,
For bobbing here where nothing decent
Swims and pleasure boats send wakes
To disturb all but the most tenacious

And worthless bottom fish. And it is true;
Yet something is stirring here at the
Breakwater's tip where the sea growth
Sways with each incoming wave.
The surge and play of it peeps up
From its own deep safety and sees
The horn warning that there is danger

Here for the unwary, here where I anchor
Till the breeze of afternoon
Lessens to calm and a chill drives
Off the sunlight and lights pop on from
Mast heads and buoys and there is naught
To be done but give in, up anchor,
And power back with the outboard

Late, despite the continual warning
Booming behind me, diminished in sound
As I head between the red and green
Of the channel lights; late with the few
Others coming in like me from great
Distances, stone-faced and staring
At the teeming shore that waits beyond.

11-15-90

THANKING GOD FOR THE LIGHTHOUSE

The continuous wrenching and screeching
Of stays and bending masts
And the rolling and pulling against
The dock cleats influenced me
Strangely. So I walked out
The gangway and stared hard into the fog
Rolling in from the sea and knew

That this time evil rode in
With it, and only I was awake, and
So had little time. Racing back
Along the gangway to my boat
Grabbing my flare gun with its seven
Flares and positioning myself
At the gangway's end, I waited.

But as time past I worried
That perhaps it went some other way
Or else that I had been mistaken
In my assessment, for I had never
Actually seen it with my own
Two eyes, and there were so many
Who looked upon the Jew as the apple

Of God's eye in his unsaved state
By virtue of his being a part
Of the Nation but not the Church
Which had been persecuted by Paul
Until his Lord had bid him stop.
And now this strange surreal
Attack by beasts and a chameleon

Antichrist which has been caught
Up to their bosoms in a kind of love
As though some rotting mummy had gotten
Loose from a thirty's horror film.
What chance does Sin stand
Against the romance of an Antichrist
Whose number is Six Six Six?

I hold the gun poised in the air.
Is there some point in bringing
Illumination here? For they all
Dream the same hallucination, and will
Only see my flares' light as another
Harbinger of their end? I shoot, though
No one will awake to see its beauty.

11-16-90

FAUST AT FIFTY-FIVE

The lists were endless,
And counting backward
From infinity I paused,
At long last, quite by chance
(Or so it seemed)
At a figure I will not name
For fear it will be misused

Again, which isn't what I mean
At all, for pausing as I did,
I gave it time to generate
A memory resident program
Of great power: it displayed
In a windowed menu
Free gifts of great magnitude.

But thinking it just another
Gimmick of advertisement,
I pressed "enter" beside
The "British Land Rover,"
Fully expecting another
Menu with the hook,
But nothing happened,

Or so I thought
Until I realized
That the doorway
Was shadowed by a strange
Vehicle that hadn't
Been there when last
I looked, and so I found

My Rover there yet
Feared to touch the keys
Again for the cost
Was as yet undisclosed
And only the gift menu
Still showed, eager that I
Should choose my "house"

Or "yacht" or "plane"
To round out my worldly
Possessions. I scrolled forward
Through the choices seeking escape
And found it in small print
On the last screen and pressed
"Return to DOS." For I feared

To resume my simple sequencing
Though the figure beckoned,
Memory Resident, in my mind,
And when I looked
The Rover became a comfort
To me -- certainly not
My fault! How could I know

The menu was serious? I shut
The computer down and stepped
Through the door way.
I couldn't delete it even if
I chose: it sat there
With its front door ajar,
And its seat warm and inviting.

12-20-90

A COLD DECEMBER DAY

Tis the malevolent season
When cold winds whip
With leaf stripped twigs
At eaves and windows,
And the leaves sailing loose
And soaring aloft
Are like a helpless ship
Caught in a whirlpool
With destruction awaiting.

There is no hope here,
And when the icy rain
Begins to fall
They will all be destroyed,
Crushed beneath the cold
Barrage and time
Turning its back
Upon another year.