The Hill

D3EA2A80-344D-4AC9-8D29-D7200ED8A662

 

I haven’t a clue what went down at Calvary

Centuries ago

You can put the things in a giant endless box

That I don’t know

I do know much of narratives

The stories we tell ourselves

There are true things in stories

That we create for ourselves

If you tell me Romans might have feared

What they didn’t understand

If you tell me Judas might have betrayed

Someone he loved and respected as man

If you tell me that 3 men were crucified

On crosses plunged deep into the land

If you tell me those that had love for them cried

As the the blood dripped from their nail struck hands

I’d believe you for the most part

I know these stories to be mostly true

I’d believe you at least in part

Because from experience these thing are true to you

People have ever been sacrificed

People have ever been betrayed

Maybe one was named Jesus Christ

Maybe he died today

No narrative sustains

That isn’t one that compels

No stories remain over centuries

That aren’t written in our cells

I’m somber not from a leap of faith

That is not my road

I’m somber for the parts I know are true

Those lying deep within our code

Sacrifice, love, and loss

Things which are often represented

By a lonely hill once bearing a cross

Which many hold when their sins are repented

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

 

Ecosystem v2

Bryson Creek

There are dragonflies

In my earliest memories

There are no clever thoughts

No grand ambitions

Only their loud hum

In the heat of summer

The taste of sweat

Upon my tongue

The feel of damp

On my neck

The river is near

Giving and taking

Sleeping then waking

Frothy then serene

The mountain is near

Giving not taking

Bending and breaking

Its peak still unseen

There is my mother

Provider of food and love

There is my father

Before me and not above

We are of here

This valley

This land

We are from here

Our family

Our band

All I know

Is nearby

Or at least as

The bird flies

The river knew my name

When I was baptized in it

The mountain knew my name

When I walked upon it

I became of here

In my crib

As the wind blew

Through it

I cannot forget

The hum

Of horseflies

Nor the pain

Of their bite

Nor the pull

Of the river’s current

It’s inhuman might

It all escalates outward

It all internalizes inward

The river takes me elsewhere

The mountain fades from view

When I am motionless

I can hear the dragonflies

Humming there still

When I am motionless

The river carries me there

Once again

The mountain’s peak

Still out of view

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

So Much Of Spring is Faith

RedFlower

 

So much of spring is faith

A red flower

We were not certain

Would bloom again

Alive once more

It is the unknowns

That winter creates

Which give birth to wonder

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

The Heart Will Beat Till It Don’t v2

Watermelon Heart

The sun will burn till it doesn’t

The heart will beat till it don’t

Worry is a thing I wouldn’t

Do because I won’t

Manage the details and aspects

Of that I cannot control

So I’ll let the world sort through it’s cycles

And ease the burden and toll

Of the weight that builds up sometimes

At the base of my neck and my spine

I’ll listen to the wind, rain, and earth’s hum

And my thoughts will become once again mine

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

There Is A Heart With Wings

Heart on Blue Mountain

There is a heart with wings

That flies beneath a golden sun that illuminates its shape

Brightening the dark of its red

Sometimes the heart moves gently

Jostling in the air that surrounds it

It does not lower or fade, at least as the mortal eye can see

The heart is and shall be eternal, from some points of view

Made of paint, nails and wood

Containing a message, if not possessing a name

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

Late March Sky 6 p.m.

March Sky

March is ever undecided

Nothing in the cold wind

Or the warming air

Betrays its mind

Or intentions

I’ll decide

When I decide

March decries

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

That Which Was

That Which Was

 

Linked in my mind

Through the hazy smoke of years

Burned by

Without me noticing

 

In the record store

They once again look at me

From the dusty bins

Side by side

 

Their world

That which was

Seems impossible

As today will seem

In 50 years

 

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

Sitter In The Vineyards

Sitter on the Vineyards

 

His heart is not stone

But metal

He is of man

Not man

Among the grapes he sits

Fragile

Every dying

He does not smile

He merely is.

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

As The Flames Dance Proud And Free

As The Flames Dance Proud and Free

 

Once there was a dark blue sky

That a fire burned beneath

The flames were born of

Magma bubbling underneath

The crust and stone of the rock

The cosmos did bequeath

 

The forming was slow and steady

Selections were rapidly made

Until once a man and woman

Sat one day alone in a glade

They made the choice to name themselves

To call their chosen pairing love

Upon a tree near to them

Perched a pure white dove

They called the dove a thing of peace

Then decorated the tree

With things strewn throughout the glade

As clouds approached from the sea

The cloud became snow in the sky

The tree covered in the coldest white

They light fires to warm them from the cold

Sitting up through the night

They were joined by others soon

To sit before the tree and flames

Soon the others before the fire

Choose to also take names

 

Still in the winter we sit before the fire

With our decorated tree

We ask for help to make it through the dark

As the flames dance proud and free

Gene G. McLaughlin 2013

He Had Never Seen the Storm

The Eyes of the Buddha

When emaciation had taken its toll

His eyes were sunken in, closed, and hollow

The life slipping from them slowly

Understanding was no closer

All that was left for him was the end

The final stages of the suffering that haunted him

The hunger that held tight to him in these final moments

The desire and want and need

All would be gone soon

Nothing was left to take

Nothing was left to give

The last step was the loss of what he saw before him

The blood slowly coursed through him

He opened his eyes

The tree and air and grass and sun all were in front of him

This was the moment

Maybe this had always been the moment

Maybe this would always be the moment

There was color in the world

There was a color in all things

There was the dark red of his blood

There was the brown bark of the tree

There was the green of the grass

There was the golden yellow of the sun

There was the white swirling wind of the storm of existence

Lingering and circling in the air around all of it

There were his eyes

Through which his slowly diminishing life force met the storm

He faced the end

He saw the storm was not actually white

The storm was all colors

The storm was everything at once

The storm was always there

He had never seen the storm

Gene G. McLaughlin 2013