READ: SEED (POETRY) BY J. BECK
READ:
SEED
(POETRY)
BY
J. BECK
FROM:
APLOMB STUDIO ART
https://aplombstudioart.wordpress.com/
(ALSO READ "WEED" & "MORALS & DOGMA")
SEED By J.Beck 2014
SEED
By J. Beck
2014
Dedicated to:
House of Clay Church of the Flesh
(Will these dry bones live?)
Table of Contents:
Sand: Ode to C. Sandburg
God, I Am Not
Art Said
First Line
Paper Cross’
Seed
God Spoke
No Oil Left
Left Behind
A Summer Sunday
Puddle
At the Lake
Weed: Not Evil
Ashland Cemetery
Sea-Shell Fossils
What Should Remain?
Denver, R.I.P.
Let Us Go Down
Mother What If?
We Are Not
Sandy Time
Sand: Ode to C. Sandburg
Pile the bodies high from Baghdad to Afghanistan
Shovel them under and let me work–
I am the Sand; I cover all.
And pile them high in Kabul
And pile them high in Fallujah and Debecka Pass
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years and passengers ask the conductor
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the Sand,
Let me work.
God, I Am Not
I am who I am not, to simplify
The Universe. I’m not a Creator
Nor am I a Judge but a captive of
Nature, a being, subject to Science.
I am not eternal, but temporal,
Fleshing out this blue, spinning-planet world.
Yes, I am a temporal being, sent here
As a mudd vessel made of divine spit
And terra-cotta clay, baptized with fire
To you, to be an Artist, to starve and
Bleed, to paint your eternal God’s signs and
Wonders, for you to resist and criticize.
Art Said
Art said: “Let there be a Point,” (and there was.)
Art was pleased with the production of this
Point of reference, from which a perspective
May be derived. Art said: “Let there be
Line,” (and there was.) Art was pleased, but the line
Was without Reason nor Purpose to guide
And direct. Art perceived the potential
Of the irrational line’s product.
Art leads the random line by a Hand of
Reason to execute deliberate
Expressions of functioning forms of value.
First Line
Why was the first Line produced? What was the
Line made for? Was it drawn as a means of
Expression or of communication
Of rational reason? Was it made to
Inform, to explain, to record? Was the
First Line of Reason produced to count fish?
Or mimic objects and forms landscaping
Their environments? Perhaps a mark as
An X as an identity or a
Witness, an account or testimony
Carved into a tree, painted on cave walls,
A Line drawn in the sand as a boundary,
A stratification, dividing a
Whole. Was the first Line for a map or chart?
Of the land and seas or constellations
Of the world and stars? Couldn’t the first Line made
Be the path aAdam and Eve walked leaving
The Gate of the Garden of Eden?
Paper Cross’
Why do you address me as your brother?
You are not my brother and I am not yours
Were we both born from the same mother’s womb
Or do we share the same father’s last name?
You speak of a Divine Creator but
I am a heathen son made of flesh and blood,
Not a God son as you proclaim to be
Your Brother walked on water but you may drown.
Your paper cross’ and crowns were wood and thorns
Show me your brow and back, your hands and feet
I don’t see any holes or ribbons meat
Lashed, missing from your backs, exposing your spines.
Why do our backs bare the stripes of your Brother,
Whose yoke is easy and bares your burdens?
My brothers and I are out on the streets
Your brothers hide in your Father’s glass houses.
We go bare footed while you wear sandals
Your hands pray and break bread on bended knees
Our hands provide, protect and masturbate
Which Mary is yours? (all three are quite pretty)
Lazarus’ sister, Martha is with us.
Seed
I sat and talked to the devil on
A sunny afternoon and he said this:
The Tree of Knowledge and Life caused the
Fall of Mann. Eve took and ate of the forbidden fruit
And passed the curse onto aAdam, who too
Disobeyed, eating the fruit of Doom, and forced
The Hand of God, condemning Mann to die.
The Seed, also fell (from their mouth) unto
The ground and died. And so with this,
The death of Mann, Nature was born again,
Escaping the pruning Hand of God, and the Garden walls.
The tree of Eden needed Eve to sow
The seed of Nature as I needed the fruit
Forbidding Mann to inherit the land.
God Spoke
God spoke unto Noah and said
Build an ark, save your righteous house
And spare two of each bird and beast
The world is corrupt and breeds sin
There are giants in the land
Sons of devils and demons
Who have taken the wives of Mann
I shall flood this earth I made.
Babel-ing tongues seek and enchant
The princes of darkness and
Principalities of the Air
They copulate with goats in Holts
And practice human sacrifice
For their evils are before me
For these deeds they shall surely die
I shall flood this earth I made.
Believe these words you have heard
For the Lord your God has spoken
Ignore the teasing taunts of those
Who laugh and play while you build
With righteous hands, saw and nail
For they will perish in their sins
I shall flood this earth I made.
Noah, when the first rain-drops fall
Save yourself and your righteous house
Enter the ark and I will shut the door
I shall flood this earth I made.
No Oil Left
there is no oil left for your lamps
nor water to change to wine
your baskets of bread are empty
Heaven’s manna fails to dew down
the holy veil is rent and torn
the stone tablet commandments lost
the ark of the covenant stolen
the grail pours blood shed out on Mann
the seven seals have been broken
hounds howl the willow widows weep
the beggar drools dribbling glib
the grackles peck yellow beaks
the eternal scroll unrolls
and vials spill out unto the Earth
the four horsemen rise up their mounts
the bit biting steeds stomp snorting
the breath of the black horse plagues mankind
the red steed bleeds bloody slaughters
the pale horse is famine and thirst
the white steed steeps shafts of light
doom looms demons moan devils groan
the sheep bleep for their good Shepherd
while goats dance and ride witches
the Reaper sharpens the sickle.
the holy rollers fast and pray
priest stand wave in white shame stained palls
clergy watching wait for rapture
that their good book of blame proclaims
the Coming of the Lord
the Resurrection of the Dead
“oh Death where Art thou Sting”
and Grave thou shallow pitch and Dread
we will meet our Maker this day
the Sun goes black the Moon loams red
the Book of Life reveals the names
of the Almighty’s chosen few
will you be one in that number
or a child of Satan damned doomed
sentenced to burn eternally
in a wailing Hell of souls gnashing teeth
Left Behind
the newspaper headlines read
the Resurrection of the Dead
and the Rapture came and went
Jesus returns and God’s not dead
meeting His Bride in the sky
the Lion of Judah reigns supreme
riding a white horse He appeared
in all His glory King of kings
the homeless widows orphans are gone
but the priest and clergy are left
God must have a sense of humor
he left the sheep and took the goats
some grave-holes lay open while
others are still full of dirt
Andy Warhol was taken
while Jerry Falwell remains
joined together in Paradise
Pablo Picasso counts his wives
John & Yoko make love in the sky
and Bette Davis bats her eyes
Mary Magdalene has to share
as Princess Di takes Jesus’ hand
Marilyn Monroe waits in line
Anne and Sylvia fuss and whine
not available for comment
Elvis Presley has left the Earth
Courtney Love is reunited with Kurt
John Wayne wants a god-damn cigarette
aAdam & Eve have lost their leaves
Lot licks his salt pillared wife
Moses has broken stone tablets
John the Baptist has back his head
friend what if you were left behind
will you take the mark of the beast
what will you trade or buy or sell
for your lost soul damned for Hell
A Summer Sunday
A summer Sunday in June
Crimson, red hollyhocks bloom.
Wearing a kitchen apron
Over an apricot blouse
Weeding plastic flower beds
Trying to find out the truth
In the dirt. Her heart is burst
And her soul has been taken.
This is the first time in her
Entire life she has ever
Felt lost inside w/out God.
Where had the Holy Ghost gone?
Smearing mudd across her cheek
She wipes the tears from her eyes.
Puddle
I crossed paths with a young fellow in
The student parking lot and he asked
“What?” (Was different about me–) had I
Cut my hair? I nodded “Yes, but not
Because I was in any trouble
Or because I had found Jesus (Christ). ”
Then he says, “If you ever find Him,
Let me know.” I told him if he was to
Go sit in that mudd puddle he might
Find Jesus (Christ) there. He only laughed
“Or just end up with a wet ass!”
“Maybe” (but all you need is child-like faith.)
What? (Jesus (Christ) can’t be found in a puddle?)
He is suppose to be everywhere
All at once, all the time; remember
The Almighty said He would confound
Mann’s wisdom with silly stuff (foolish things).
I told the young fellow that I
Might be sitting there in the puddle
When he returns and he said “If you
Are, I will sit with you.” I wonder
Why would he wait for me to sit in
The puddle first if he really wanted
To find Jesus (Christ) for himself. I
Wonder if he would wait for me first
If he thought there was ten pieces of
Silver at the bottom of the puddle?
At the Lake
On a bitter January, sharp blue air day
There are roses on the ice at the lake.
What are they doing there like that?
Who did this, did anyone see?
What were they thinking
What does this mean?
Were they thrown or were they laid?
These roses on the ice at the lake
Are wonderful, beautiful
But there is an ambiguous feeling
Of overwhelming joy
And unsettled sadness.
Are these roses
On the ice at the lake
A memorial or tribute
Of gain or loss,
A romantic tragedy
Perhaps?
I would like to believe
These roses on the ice
Are a celebration
Of true Love
Or a delight for Life
As God is a witness at the lake.
Weed: Not Evil
Die you old miserable man
(you are miserable & corrupt)
Return to the Earth – the dirt
And the Worm from which your Life came
And so life does go on
Not without you
Atop you
Life advances with each receding Death
Death simplifies Life –
Decay is not passive
Nor the stench of.
What sort of seeds do you have in store?
Will a Tree sprout & grow
Tall & strong
Reaching for the Sun
Joining the Earth with the Sky
Licking the clouds for Rain?
Will a Flower bloom
Beautiful & bright
A living testimony of a divine Creator?
Or shall a Weed grow?
Heading Tares
The Winds scatter abroad
Unto Good & Bad ground alike
Allotted the same Time & Space
As the Tree that affords fruit & shade
As the Flower that appeals & admires
Providing the nectar to the gods
The weed competes for Light & Water
The Weed is not evil
It’s just a
Weed.
Ashland Cemetery
As I walk,
Stroll
Through the cemetery
Viewing the old, weathered stones
Limestones
With dates and names
Chiseled centuries ago
Faces of sculpture
Pale, beautiful,
Sun-bleached skin
Washed smooth
Fingers and hands broken
Arms and legs missing
Green mildew creeps up
Out of the cool grue shade
Where the magic periwinkle
Crawls and curls atop
The quiet moss.
Across the rolling green lawn
Of white markers
At a distance
There appeared something odd
As I approached for a closer look
I squint to focus my eyes to see
There stands an old soft maple
Many decades old
That had grow up in between
Two graves,
The graves of a married couple
Both grave stones had grown into the tree
Each, half exposed on opposite sides
The markers left long, deep scars
Up each side, in the bark.
I fell to my knees to weep—
The wonderment flooded my soul
To think that this married couple,
Once, separated by death
Were together again, now
Inside this living tree.
Sea-Shell Fossils
I will remember their folded hands
(because they never show their feet)
There is no reason to look at their faces
They are gone—
Leaving their perfectly combed hair behind
Their eyes are closed (without dimes)
And their lips are painted shut
With a waxy make-believe smile.
I never have figured death out
Is it like a door
That opens or shuts?
Does the soul leave because it can?
Because the body is weaken and
Can no longer contain it?
Or does the body force
The soul to leave
Slamming a door shut?
The body is this three dimensional manifestation
Of an abstract soul
A stick in the mudd
With a turning leaf
Flickering in the breeze
When I (my body)
Am dead and gone
And reduced to smoke and ash
By the licking fires of death
Will blood rain down from the heavens
Once the smoke dissipates?
Where will have my essence gone, be found?
Shouldn’t my ashes be scattered into a river
With hopes my remains will have gone
To the seas and reach the eternal beaches
That the oceans lick and build
Compiling the sands of time
And someday be found
A sea-shell fossil
From a long time.
What Should Remain?
Die right? May I ask? Who is to say?
Isn’t the true test of Life to die right?
To look Death in the eyes and not to
Look away, but to be brave, steadfast.
Should we welcome and entreat? Or should
We deny and defy, resist and
Fight? Or perhaps “Crash & Burn” instead
Of slowly fading, as old iron rust.
Should we live what days we have as fast
As we can or wait upon each one
To enjoy what moments should remain?
Denver, R.I.P.
Will there be riches? Will there be rewards?
Will there be crowns of gold to be thrown?
For what? A race well run? A face grown
Old? A life of dirt and mold where God
Is the Worm? There’s no rest in decay.
There is no peace in desolation.
The brevity of the flesh is measured
In breathes from the first to the last.
People will forget, the mind is weak
But the heart knows, and one’s drive is telling.
Although the spirit is willing there’s
No prize, only bliss, laughter for
Fool, and sorrow for the living left,
There will be seed for the crow and
The sower to harvest; the electric
Fence is snapping and cracking again.
It never stops raining this time of
Year, the Corn Queen weeps, dark, cold and wet,
I need another red-pack cigarette.
I see all their faces and I have
Pity too, but where is the sorrow?
(It is captured in the joy of an
Innocent child.) Are we still at war?
Let Us Go Down
Let us go down and parade among the warm corpses
With the others, seeking their loved lost ones there among
The newly dead as the war wages on, what violence,
Mann is possible of, what violence, Mann can will to,
What violence Mann can stomach, to bring about their ends
Only the soldiers’ parents, the widows and the orphans
Understand, they have no say, in these grim matters of
War, they’re just grateful to find, to have and take their dead.
Mother What If?
Mother, what if the water stops
And fails to run out of the wall?
Where will the water come from to
Fill our skins and our empty jars?
Mother, the ground is peeling hot
The lakes are white cracked, hard and flat
The canals have been pumped away
Failing crops in the barren fields.
Mother, the river-beds are dry-draws
Even the hidden swamps are gone.
How will we wash our heads and clothes
Or quench the thirst of our parching throats?
Mother, where will the water come
From to fill our skins and empty jars?
Daughter, the water will not stop
Running, the wall will never fail.
We Are Not
“We’re who we’re not.” the professor lectured
I am sitting, staring, thinking to my
Self, maybe, I am starting to get this stuff–
We are simply, who we are not, like that.
We are antonyms of our opposite Selves:
Like nice people are kind because they’re not mean
The rich aren’t poor, the hungry are never fat
Pretty is Beauty as Truth is fact;
Givers aren’t takers as the Wise aren’t fools
Lovers are not haters nor are friends foes.
The naked have no clothes as Cripples can’t
Walk (without a cane). The deaf can’t hear (with-
Out sight,) as the blind can’t see to read nor the
Dumb talk (without hands). Orphans have no parents
As the Homeless have blankets without beds.
Like that doctor is not a murderer
As a soldier isn’t a baby-killer
Bankers aren’t thieves nor do lawyers chase cars.
The police that honor, serve and protect
Are not criminals dealing drugs in the streets.
Laws are Order as the Proud are Moral;
Fathers go to work and home to their families
As good mothers aren’t trailer-trash crack-whores
Heterosexuals are straight couples, not gay partners
Like Christians aren’t suicide-bombers.
Sandy Time
“Allow us to debate,” says the first man
Lying the hour-glass on its side, “There is Time.”
The second man grabs and sits it back up
“You can not save Time, Time can never be stopped,”
Continuing, “Time must always go on.”
Then the first man takes the hour-glass and turns it
Upside down asking, “Can we borrow Time back?
“No, No, No,” frantic, the second man raves,
”You can not steal back Time or reverse it.”
So the first man picks the hour-glass up,
Over his head smashing it on the floor.
The second man distraught, rebukes, “What have
You done? Time is lost, stopped, there’s no Time
Left.” The first man hands the second man a
Broom to sweep the sands up off the floor, saying,
“On the contrary my good man,” as he
Bends down, taking a handful of grit, to
Sift the grains of Sandy Time left through his
Fingers, smiling down, jesting, “No, here is
All the Time, now, that you will ever need.”
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