Christopher Yokel's Blog, page 4

Poem: The Last Death

One day
the last death will happen,
entropy will have
its final word, but
dear God
I pray it will not be
*the*
final word
of this sad story.

Can dust and ashes
be our only end?
A tale of tragedy
cut through every corner
of history?

It cannot be so.

That last death
must be death itself
ever hungry
finally swallowing its own tail.

Poem: Carry Me Away

I count myself lucky
to be the sole witness
to this peaceful scene–
well, me and two seagulls–
watching the marsh water
flow swiftly into Sakonnet Bay.

I want to jump in,
and let it carry me away
but it’s early April,
still cold and gray.

Maybe someday
I’ll let it take me out to sea
and into that great big
setting sun.

Poem: Maundy Thursday

My brother is digging plots
in the backyard,
he’s stripped back
neat rectangles of sod,
like a gravedigger 
at the beginning of his work.

He’ll put raised beds there,
for tomatoes and beans and squash plants.

We’ll lay the dead there, yes
but we are relying 
on a fruitful resurrection. 

Poem: When We Wish

When we wish
we will the universe
to our will
as if we could bend
every atom’s path.

What foolish,
fragile things we are
staring down a black hole
for a favor.

And yet,
where is life
without wishing,
without hoping?

So we press ourselves
against the Great Wheel
and sometimes it moves
ever so much.

Haven’t done anything like this in awhile, but it’s rainy here...

Haven’t done anything like this in awhile, but it’s rainy here and I’m stuck in side, so this is how I feel. 

Poem: The Fly Fisherman

The dancing line gleams
in the late afternoon sun
flicking and swishing
to the wrist’s rhythm,
the patient litany
of the fisherman,
plying his craft
in quiet solitude. 

Poem: Everything Is Going To Be Okay

There comes a day in March
when the sun rises
the air is mild
the birds sing
and even though the earth
is still brown and bare
you know
everything is going to be okay. 

Poem: Ash Wednesday III

The morning after
evening service
I find
the smudgy silhouette
of the cross
still on my brow.

Living in
the in-between
it seems I cannot escape
either entropy
or redemption

Poem: View from the North Conway Rail

The ragged pines
of the White Mountains
carve the horizon
as the dark glittering rush
of the Saco River
cuts through fields
of fresh fallen snow. 

The Faith of Linus Van Pelt

I’ve got a post up on The Rabbit Room about observing two kinds of faith in Linus:

Halloween Linus reminds me of myself in my worst moments of faith, when I think that God is punitive and demanding, keeping a record of all my slightest faults and tainted motives, loving me out of some sort of obligation and not with any particular passion. Linus in A Charlie Brown Christmas seems to be in a very different place.

Read more here.