Twelve Rusty Screws

Twelve Rusty Screws

Despite all legends of St. Peters gate, its
  Robed cartoon mensches doing stand up on clouds,
  Winged baby heads hummingbird about,
The book says very little about it,
  No postcards from that great beyond,
  One is ‘with God,’ so simply and profound

Repairing the Church, these
  Plexiglas panes that protect the Sainted windows
  Have hundred year screws loose,
Which we remove, drilling new holes,
  Then  replace them with the shiny new,
  Each generation has its work to do

When all is done,
  I’ve the old rusty screws shepherded in my pocket,
I take them out, lie in my hand,
  No small ceremony, just I remember them,
Then toss all to the recycling bin,
  Wherein they roll and rest in peace within,
Until their final reclamation in that molten integration,
  That whom, that what, that where,
     That whence of which all came 

Old Pond Abide

Old Pond Abide

In this ground hog summer,
  Near seventy in the sun,
The melt back has left the old pond
  Blue – Green, aqua marine,
A dynastic china jade which perhaps
  One could dip a ladel in and 
Pour out the cherry blossom Fu Dog Dragon,
  World held in his paw

Breathe deep, old pond, abide,
  Released from winters grip, all Nature’s still asleep,
Your turtles, your bread kissing fry, arriving ducks,
  The diving kingfish, your great blue heron, all wait, 
While the Empress of Creation bides weeks more before
  She will cup and incarnate you,
     In her glass menagerie hands