Jesus At The Plate

Jesus stepped up
Swinging the dogwood bat,
A trickle of blood
Dripped from the brim of his hat,
“I’m gonna touch ‘em all, Blue.” He said,
As the angry crowd
Booed the Strikeout King.

I Saw The Face Of Mary

We lay on a small wooden dock
At a farm pond in Kansas,
Our lips touched, lovingly,
We talked to each other,
As wavelets lapped at the moorings
We looked deep into the water
Of our lovingkindness,
We smiled, lying face to face,
Stretched out in opposite directions,
Only our lips touching,
Only our eyes locked into the embrace
Of thousands of years of loving
Each other, the World,

In another world I came for you,
Aggressively seeking you out,
Calling your name until you appeared
Outside your cottage door
In whatever land it was,
You knew what I had in mind,
You said I had to wear
A mask of Paper Mache
You threw it, the wind caught it,
Sending it beyond the wooden fence
Just out of my reach,
Whose face is it? You teased,
I saw the face of Satan turning to you, Judas
I saw the face of Judas turning to you, Jesus
I saw the face of Jesus turning to you, Mary
Then your face became mine, mine yours,
So we laughed and embraced
While the wind blew the masque
In a whirlwind around us.

Life Is A Mystic Bunghole

The Vintner pried the Best Bung™
Out of the bunghole
Of the vintage French barrel,
The fragrance of rich red wine
Filled her head
As she bent over and sniffed,
Using her hand to waft
The essence
Toward
Her nostrils,
Then peering into the blackness
Of the bung
She discovered the miasma inside,
A cacophony of sights and sounds
That assailed her,
Causing her
To swoon.

Photoshopped

In an effort to economize his work
He had a Photoshop chip implant,
Allowing him to create and manipulate
On his computer screen at will,
In the blink of an eye
He could change things
Without mouse or keyboard,
So it went day after day
Blink, blink, blink,
Changing this photo or that layout,
Improving his speed and skills,

When he got the overdraft from his bank
He laughed and blinked,
Changing it to a deposit,
He went to the wine store
Blinked and changed the label
From Chateau Neuf du Pape
To Boone’s Farm,
Blink, blink, blink,
His old hoopty car
Became a Bentley,
Ragged shoes transformed
To Moss Green Wingtips,

It all came to an end one day
When he blinked
Reading the obituaries.

Ghost Trees

Interspersed within the living
Are the ones that are dying,
Then they become ghosts,
Wrapped in ghost cocoons,
Unable to wave in the wind,
Dropping dead branches instead of fruit,
Like Sandzen’s Haunted Trees
They reach out but do not grasp,
You cannot touch them,
They cannot be reached
Except in the realm of dead things,
Do not go there, dear friend,
For if you take the boat across the river
To the other side,
Be sure to tip the oarsman,
He is a fickle soul
That might leave you there forever
In the Woods of Suicide.