By Owen Swain
Wisdom in me is weakOh for the folly of God,
the strength in me fails
Hope works in me to prevail
the substance of the most odd,
Spirit’s kiss upon cheek.
My thoughts on wind, like leaves
tiny cyclones of clutter
rattle the sound of breathing.
Mercy, mercy, am I leaving
the truths Wisdom uttered?
My faith on thin wonder cleaves.
If You can save me
it would be all I ask, to
eat the host, drink the flask
then with Spirit stealth
turn, turn, myself to Thee.
The Black Tree
By Pavel Chichikov
Closer to God is closer to the cross
But closer to that is much too close
To real blood, real flesh
The cross is high, from the stones to the sky
And yet there is no snow, no ice
On the high cross-pieces
The church of the walls will shatter, fall down
The plaster and pews spill to the wind
But the cross will remain
We all must be scattered, the form must die
All follow others, you and I
Until none of us are left on Earth
But the cross will not be shattered or moved
It is the black tree of suffering, love
And these are immutable
The cross is self-conscious and sentient
It can weep the dark blood of the innocent
And all must be of it
Now on the day when God was killed
We kneel and kiss the death that he willed
And walk away for a while