Three Poems

I am trying to improve my poetry skills. If you take time to read these, please please please comment with feedback. Which of the three speaks to you most? Which least? Are they any good, really? Let me know...

Transition JD Stillwater, 2019 

Our fathers’ science 

reduces my selfhood to widgets

a model, a machine, 

idly ticking clockwork,

pointless.

Our fathers’ religion

renders my body a shadow

a slut-shamed sleaze

a clay model, a precursor,

discounted. 

Our daughters’ science 

consecrates wholeness

First Light made mortal meat,

cosmic wind incarnate, 

alive. 

Our daughters’ religion

marries meat and mind,

a sweaty pungent monument

a galaxy, a destination, 

a symphony. 

Cloudy With a Chance of Hell JD Stillwater, 2019

I just want to watch movies. 

Or browse YouTube. 

Something wrong with that?

I don’t want to walk to work, 

or ride my bike with a daypack. 

Gas is cheap now!

I want to lie on the floor, and relax

with a cuddly friend, maybe. 

I want a handbag with sequins that flip.

I want to be safe. 

I could use a new phone, one with 

a bigger screen and more colors.

Plan ahead? Why?

fares are cheap now  

Did you see that new thing? I

ordered one; it’ll be here tomorrow. 

I just want to be warm.

Why bother hanging them?

this new dryer is high-efficiency.

I don’t want to be good; I need

to de-stress and be fully present. 

I tried to be good once, to recycle, to 

do my part, to “save the world.”

Besides, nothing I do will make

any difference whatsoever. 

I want to fiddle while Rome burns, 

and picnic on the railroad tracks. 

This Body JD Stillwater, 2019

This body–

sweaty, stinky, earthy

bones, blood, breath

flabby, wrinkled, furtive

–is no mere shadow.

This body–

that shits and sings and

breathes and heaves and

mumbles and fumbles and

obsesses and professes and

over-eats and over-thinks and

flares and cares and shares and fails

–is no glove for a ghost. 

This body–

of clay and water

smoke and sunlight

salt and germs and meat

–is no fine-tuned apparatus. 

This body–

of sticky hairy 

smells-like-fishy

lusty rusty bloody

slimy grimy snotty

oozing squirting farting

fecund fungus jungle 

pond scum arising to carnal flesh

–is no fallen depravity.

This body–

racing full-tilt after the 

flying football the 

almighty dollar the

gorgeous glamorous girl the

chance at glory or 

at least notoriety or

some whispered remembrance 

–is no clicking whirring clockwork. 

This body–

fertile no longer

but once, wonderfully

(cosmically, even)

still so vibrantly alive 

even as I walk

through the valley of the shadow of 

despair 

–is all I truly know. 

This body–

its own magic recipe

blueprint for itself

 like a seed

 like a spore

gathered ingredients

constructed from 

scrapings, pilferings

e unum pluribus

e pluribus unum

–is magic

This body–

the one you pronounce

so confidently 

to be mere

shadow on a cave wall, mere

predictable machine, mere

clothing for a ghost, mere

precursor to heavenly bliss

or eternal torment below,

–this body is real.

This body is mine. 

–

What Folly!

Thinking about my own mortality, trying to apply a deep-time perspective. Should I buy a headstone? A vision came of some fool scurrying to mark the beach at each wave’s furthest reach. That ridiculous image sparked this short poem. 

What hubris is this wave traveling proud, sure to have glory on the sand!
What love abides adeep, enraptured of shimmering countenance above!
What folly, to erect the marble monument marking ripple’s furthest edge! 
How sacred the compassionate longing of ocean for these brief mortals!

Convenient Truths

Global warming is a hoax.  

Homosexuality is a choice. 

Evolution is a lie.   

The holocaust never happened. 

Moon shots were staged.

Medicine is a trick. 

Bacteria don’t exist.

The sun orbits the earth. 

Gravity isn’t real. 

The earth is flat. 

Knowledge is bogus. 

Reason is arbitrary. 

“Facts” are just opinions.

Science is someone’s agenda. 

The world is dangerous. 

I need more ammo. 

Measure Me

Measure me, oh Maker.

Measure me at three AM,

in the shower,

on the road,

during breakfast,

making love.

Stand me barefoot at the wall;

lower the boom to kiss my crown,

while I stretch my spine upwards,

heels pressed down tight.

Set me laid bare on the balance

while you heap diamonds

on the pan until even,

and the glittering carbon glares enviously across.

Submerge me in Archimedes’ tub

where sparkling warmth

caresses my skin and runneth over

splashing “Eureka!” on the tile.

Press gently the pulse at my wrist

counting silently the deep-time seconds

lips absently forming the numbers

of the ancient flow inside.

Let me feel the cool tailor’s tape

and the backs of your practiced fingers

on my ribs, my waist, my hips, my

whole being tingling, blushing.

Calibrate my calcium core

against the limestone bedrock

articulate the tendons from depths to peaks

and back to an ocean of stars.

Pour me steaming into pyrex,

discount my meniscus,

jot me in your margins,

plot me on logarithmic axes.

Determine with vernier sextant

my molecules’ angular alignment

with the infinite soul’s arrow

from Then through Now to Then.

Take my measure, Creator.

Show me again and again

I am both ocean and rain

smaller and vaster, stiller and faster,

fleeting photon and untracked cosmos.

Take my measure, dear One, and

Deliver me beyond measure.

A Skinhead Called Me A Racist

Racist?

Meaningless.

Not "devoid of meaning,"

Rather, "too many meanings."

Precisely, three.

Racist the first:

Filled with disgust, distrust, certain of

Them as less-than, other, filthy.

Relishing the poison of the past,

Spewing unabashedly the putrid.

Racist the second:

Dancing with trepidation and guilt

Unexpressed, polite, concerned.

Eschew, renounce, withhold, deny, but

Avert the eyes, lock the doors.

Racist the third:

Embracing the term, knowing

The sunflower in cyanide soil strives clean green, but

carries the poison inside.

Acknowledgement, attentiveness, humility.

Racist is as racist does.

The fuming skinhead couldn't miss!

In the soil, the air, the water, the breast milk

The taint's in both of us... ALL of us.

That's me, Racist, rounding third.

Darwin Did Not Kill God

Darwin did not kill God.

Darwin opened God's toolbox, like a young child exploring the cellar, and God smiled from the shadows. Little Charlie hefted out one sharp tool, feeling the weight in his hand, wistful but certain as a child discerning the truth about Santa.

Einstein did not kill God.

Einstein opened God's dresser, like a child playing dress-up with Mommy's clothes, and God smiled from the doorway. Albert searched every drawer, exasperated to find only one radiant garment, then wide-eyed with wonder at a perfect fit.

Hubble did not kill God.

Hubble opened God's purse, like a teenager seeking confirmation of a fair allowance, and God smiled from close beside. Young Edwin peered into a vast chamber, much larger on the inside than out, containing riches to make him gasp like a drowning man finally breaking surface.

Copernicus did kill god.

Copernicus upended the heavens, like a sand clock run out, and god was swept away on outrushing tsunamis of sunlight. Gone indeed is the angry old greybeard; vanished also his throne in the sky. But Earth was not commanded forth by that smiteful sky-man; we emerged from God Herself, no less miraculous than stars, oak trees, oceans, and eagles.

No, God is not dead. She openly shares Her tools, Her clothes, and Her riches, still smiling from uncountable legions of faces. Ours is a God who created not one sun, but 400,000,000,000,000,000,000 suns, breathing them gently in on Her 14,000,000,000 year song. How glorious the gentle and artful God of Charlie, Albert, and Edwin!

God dances in our twinkling universe of galaxies, stars, planets, and creatures; an infinite community of celebrants; a single miraculous Oneness, re-creating Its own conscious Self to shout songs of praise and connection.