March, 2010More Poetic Thoughts of Christopher Beiers
Some New Poetic Thoughts of Chris Biers
Semblables 13 January 2009
Curtains of Spring parting, grace for the new season.
Said goodbye last evening.
To say goodbye one last time inspired feeling: pangs of Loss.
Morning entry in a journal focused to the soul’s need.
One occasion makes the parting a gift from God:
a gift we ever met, and walked together.
Peace 20 January 2009
Peace was a lunch banquet,
a quiet celebration by the ocean.
City Rain 22 January 2009
When the pavement meets the wet—rain—is the icy fragrance of oils coming up.
I never knew the city so bold, as when smelling the oil
in a raindrop.
Darkish place—looking inside the Harvest moon.
Inner scent of the city spirits:
the touch of Nature in a plain dull day.
The sun still crescents the buildings,
hallowed lights stir the halls inside them
and we speak to one another like no other time
when the rain comes.
The Center Rests At Times 25 January 2009
Time and again I cry that nobody can hear me,
but then again, some people can.
I tell the spokes of the wheel to keep me from turning—
to draw me closer to the center.
If spokes could hear,
I’d be nearly victorious.
But the spokes are not the people,
nor are the people
the center.
Microwave Soup 27 January 2009
I put the soup in too long
it’s hot, hot, hot.
Listing for Birth 28 January 2009
The morning of an atypical Monday finds me crying to soft voices.
I walk to inward sighs.
Lost sight—blind, hearing no sound softer than moonlight—
as if I am rolling underneath the weighted pin.
A leavened loaf begins with the superabundant strength
of the breadmaker.
I wait now with idle hands,
holding out for the heat
of Mother Love.
There is no thankfulness in this morning of atypical voices.
Hard filtered love only comes.
Blind sight—knowledge of something better.
It exists, but remains aloof in the Winter of tomorrow’s thought.
The hardy infragrant seed will spring forth the flame
of
the future.
I wait now with idle hands,
holding out for the heat
of Mother Spring.
Grace be to the festoons and celebrations. I chide an old friend
with festive thoughts. Hard to think that
tomorrow the day will grow stronger; I will not wither;
false rhythms will not toil me at the final struggle of birth.
The day in full bloom: mother will take care
of
everything.
I wait now with idle hands,
holding out for the heat
of Mother Sun.
Glory on High.
Glory be
to the Highest.
The Runaway 28 January 2009
Thermal heat of oblivion was never quite so incandescent.
I removed my rays and meant to stay,
but it wasn’t obvious what she wanted.
Every woman wants a husband, whether she tells you so or not,
maybe it’s not so,
but I had to learn how to expect
no less of myself before committing
the act that follows.
A Selfish Time 29 January 2009
Selfishness springs forth thoughts
devoid of trust,
as if the river were full of crocodiles,
when a thought springs to mind
of Loch Ness.
Then, it’s as if the Ocean
were no deeper than the river
The Hammer 29 January 2009
Stubbing my finger with the hammer, hurts.
Stubbing my finger between the nail and the sledge
shatters the bones in my thumb.
Jesus had plenty of moments when he didn’t think anything.
He didn’t teach things either.
He was screaming.
I respect the Provincials;
I respect their Fortitude: Tradition: time held Honor.
But they don’t think so plainly (they say they do) on some things.
Like every impregnable fortress,
they still have an Achilles heel.
It’s as if they pretend to think
“Jesus was stronger than the metal of my fiber;
I am only human.”
Pretend
I am no dogmatic.
I still respect everyone to a fault.
The judgment is on me: resides in my thumb:
when it shatters
I scream.
Binary 29 January 2009
You’d talk, but you wouldn’t know a thing.
You’d ask me questions that you didn’t know the answers to,
yet you wouldn’t know the answers,
when I told you.
I’ts appealing isn’t it?
to think someone superordinate
has the answers.
To think:
“I am, myself,
appealing.”
