A Celloistic Gospel


The cello was opened.
As scalpel, it tooled into,
gently peeled the membrane of catharsis
and our air was pulled inside its cavernous display.
The cello was opened.
Its glorious cascades bubbled across
unexpectant ears and flawed expectations,
dowsed fires, irrigated imaginations,
ignited passion.
The cello was opened.
Repeating itself without repetition,
it medicated the inattentive injury,
circuitously navigated distraction
and redeemed histories of transient journeymen.
The cello was opened and without arrogance,
dispensed remedy to the parched assembly,
endless lines of saddened eyes,
wrinkled veterans with baby fingers
and fledgling savior apprentices.
I believe Jesus plays the cello.

Inspired by a July 15, 2007 performance by Yuri Anshelevich

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown

The Consummation of Tango and Redemption


Open-winged,
descending through that silent hole of stillest night,
God entangled him in grace
and considerately initiated a choreography of passion.

Resigning his affiliation,
Stefan set fire to his inventory,
flung baptismal waters at the flame
and celebrated with a festive, inspirational requiem.

No one monitors the bodycount littering the dance floor;
such shells of shed acquaintances,
propensities and associated demonettes
provide incense within the fragrant pyres of devotion.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown

Jesus Tricks


It echoes in the looks of those from sidewalk stands,
occupational cubicles, cushioned seats of movie houses,
and even those who sit on Sunday mornings singing:
"Show us the Jesus trick."

Tiny crosses by the handfuls tossed to waiting crowds,
a web site etched upon each one solicits Visa dollars,
offers to sell secret passports
to The Kingdom.

As well, even the less-than-charlatans
in hopes to earn their collars entertain that challenge,
dance for strangers and parishioners;
unaware they've spilt their Bibles.

Whether a most sincere plea or just bidding on Barabas,
it does disclose an innocent malnourishment
of those who secretly do suspect
they may need what they do not want.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown

Horrific Glory, Spare Us Not


I sometimes wish... God would just dispatch his justice,
stop the noise, stack up all the bodies, sort out souls.
If He must squeeze time and earth through sieve,
sifting scent of Lucifer from spent eternal dust...
why not now?
Prolonging wound and injury suffered by the human flaw,
man's ignorance prompts us speak aloud.
Graced not to find the questions which
are proper known and asked,
I rant, without the shame which I should own.
If God would but shut me up
and every human tongue which wags;
rip flesh from well worn world by spirit law;
as cord wood, pile humanity, then
weigh the lot in balance hung on Armageddon's porch,
before the throne.
I do not know nor ever will why He tarries midst the filth
we dine and serve each other, feigning love.
No better than another one
whom is, has passed or yet to come,
I simply yearn for end of grace abused.
But God, in his sagacious wit,
extends his hand to spill himself
on angry infants shouting at His ear.

Copyright (c) 2004 Gary Brown

God’s Attorney


In cafes, Kelly pays his bill before he eats
just in case the rapture snags him up away
and midst the riotous confusion,
someone finds his unpaid check and blames it all on God.
And so our over-thinking tilt toward analysis,
diagramming truth
to fit on titled books and business cards
makes evidence against us,
bears witness to our well-intentioned
nature to confound, confuse what is very simple.
Opting to develop an astute defense for God
with those who argue, do not get it,
who cannot without Kelly's help enjoy the secret know,
his life is spent on practicing, rehearsing lines
and missing every doorbell ring,
chance to dance or simply love without a net.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown

Of Mindfulness and the Disarming Prospect of Awareness


Being quite convinced he could not hide from God,
gave rise to intrigue:
the prospect of imagination;
capitulation to a strange devotion
which strips religion's threads,
might terrorize the gurus of ecclesia.
Considerations grew, became an immersion,
a suffocation which tugs the soul
out, through the heart
and as delightful baggage
drags the mind along to play the straight man.
Vincent accidentally broke the learning curve,
lost himself free-falling through the Kingdom,
landed in the playground of The Trinity
where he forgot his learned theology
and vague yet adamant convictions.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown

Jack


Jack has a gun.
He preaches with it in his pocket;
keeps it loaded, unexploded;
Jack, and his gun.
It's the kind of thing he always does,
just after a war or reading of one, in case of one;
he's sentimental like that.
Being humored by scenarios he only imagines,
keeps him prepared in a healthy way, because...
Jack, has a gun.
I remember when everyone,
shocked at some news, recoiled
and repeated their worries and fears to each other;
Jack, only listened and sipped his ice tea
and rocked in his chair on the porch;
and oh, did I mention,
Jack, has a gun.
I thought it weren't his and perhaps, it wasn't,
and perhaps there was more to its story,
but Jack was determined to keep all its secrets
bottled inside like the bullets which hid
in the gun which he kept in his pocket.
I know when he spoke of it no one else listened;
he thought I just knew what he thought he had told me.
Once, after thinking I'd heard it fall out,
when once he fell soundly asleep in his chair
and I thought that I heard it, fall out... on the floor,
I thought that I'd see it;
I saw it was actually an oddly shaped rock;
smooth-like, all over, almost a bit shiny,
and I saw that apparently,
it wasn't still loaded.
I wondered a lot about that after that
but never once questioned the fact that I knew
the truth of the matter
was: Jack... has a gun.
He preaches with it in his pocket.
He's given clues on how to use it,
as now I know, he often does.

Copyright (c) 2005 Gary Brown

Synopsis


Even infants tread and splash within
the hallowed shallows;
no thoughts, preoccupation with the deeper things;
all as it should be for
children of the Kingdom.
But rather we as Henry Bemis,
wake and rub our blurried eyes
to stare without absorption across all the books,
knowledge we desire to decorate ourselves
and mash the landscape.
From the passing Greyhound's window,
Jesus watched before his dozing off
to squeal of babe,
the poor man's breath,
fears within the silent teen seated in back,
and the subtly numbing,
muffled humming,
of the tires.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown