LXX-LXXV

 

LXX.

I took my kids to catch the high-school play—
the trippiest performance I have seen—
about a girl who tries to make her way
through nineties middle-schooler dating scene.

Except of course the heroine onstage
was born a T-rex inexplicably
and so must fight reptilian bouts of rage
while navigating popularity.

A cross-cast actor sporting claws and tail,
high-heeled shoes and dress when prom comes ‘round,
produced a primal prehistorical wail
and slew the cast and cast them to the ground.

Jurassic Park and Carrie here combined
to burn this play forever in my mind.


LXXI.

A magus was a Persian priest of old
who kept and tended Zoroaster’s flame.
They stared into the heavens bright and cold
and entered Matthew’s Gospel to their fame.

From magi we derive our word for magic;
illusionists have claimed it for their own.
The fate of Zarathustrians is tragic
as Islam largely drove them from their home.

The Christian Middle Ages saw the rise
of clergy who had studied the occult.
Hermeticists and Cabbalists were wise;
could faithful knowledge ever count as fault?

A man ordained who esoterics learned
should properly a magus thus be termed.


LXXII.

The wind was up; the waves were high and white.
Not many men had braved the upper deck.
The Northern Sea was showing us her might
as I was drawn unto her call and beck.

My wife slept down below, all motion sick
as we traversed from Norway Iceland bound.
Some smokers with cigars were huddled thick
but on the whole the deck was clear around.

The ocean rose, the sky bit down; I thrilled
to be alive exposed to such a sight.
Some primal need within me was fulfilled
when I beheld the midnight sun burn bright.

I’ll ever hold the vivid memory
of reading Heimskringla on open sea.


LXXIII.

I’m looking forward to Thanksgiving Day.
We leave at six to get there before noon.
I’ve grown to like our long and winding way
although the car affords us little room.

We spend it down in Kiester where my wife
grew up along the border of the state;
a tiny little town and quiet life
succumbing to the ravages of fate.

I couldn’t name them all but those I know
I’m genuinely pleased to see again.
Her uncle, mother, brother, kids in tow,
with food and drink, with family and friends.

Indeed, when we’ve traversed so many miles
the Bloody Mary bar elicits smiles.


LXXIV.

The Hanging of the Greens on Wednesday night,
an annual tradition at our church,
brings trees and bells and ornaments to light
along with song and history research.

We deck the halls for holidays to come,
for Advent and of course for Christmas Day.
I know this seems like rushing it to some
but long before I came this was their way.

I formalized their rite of preparation
with explanations, readings, and some hymns.
So many people seek participation
to skip it now would certain seem a sin.

Some say that it’s their fav’rite of the year
to see the sanctuary burst with cheer.


LXXV.

I’ve paid attention to my dreams of late.
They’re always there yet fade at break of day.
They sometimes seem to grant a glimpse of fate
before my waking thoughts send them away.

The frequency of monsters might seem odd
yet rarely am I frightened by the sight
for even in my dreams I sense that God
is with me in the pit or mountain height.

I start anticipating my own bed
and darkness into which my soul is hurled.
Supposedly it’s all inside my head;
still I suspect I visit other worlds.

I pull the covers up; the veil is thin;
so I seek out infinity within.