the poetry knook, the poetry of stephen m. james

Poems with the tag ‘jesus’

Something’s in the water

(A meditation for Mother’s Day and Christmas)

“Something’s in the water.” Chuckles surround.
“I’m due. Get ‘em out with spicy Thai.”
Down in straps infants spit-up over shoulder and lapse
the recurring flow–before nine and after one,
suckling two, singled out, like the single ones so few
within the stained. Glass. Body–broken.
Created to create, duty to do, should we adopt, a different view?
Turn a cheek when asked if trying instead of
shoving our Brothers and Sisters, sighing:

A gleam in God’s eye, a moat in mine.
Doused at a shower: games and pastel flower
present from the eye, a tear, ducks out early dashing hope
upon the rocks by Babylonian stream, the placenta’s quite salty,
but ’tis sweeter than bare melancholy.

Christened: yet another granny or grandpa’s claim,
last week’s was not averse to holy, genocidal names–
ache and money enough can get triple the glow, the pound,
the flesh, the ounce add up every week, you know, weighing down,
C-cups runneth over to nursery wants ten more
fingers, ten more toes, to fight the battle
in the basement of babies booming below.

Impregnated with fertility in winter–in spring:
proud pistils sing standing up theirs in-carnations
on Sunday two of–May the un-mothered run away.
But no matter the year, we worship a child in the end:
bowing to our cherubs in bathrobes, tiny babes in bulletin,
sliding through choruses on the backs of asses to Bethlehem.

For God so loved the world that he sent an advent series
every year to remind the shepherdess, in her barren fields,
to treasure up these things and ponder them.


When the strings and co come to town

No wonder the 19th century poets were ope’ addicts.
No television,
And it took an orchestra from Vienna to reach earthly heaven
Death knolls were entertainment,
kinda grabs you by the neck, no?
but no-bells (Prizes) for imagination
Can’t wait for my dream sequel,
if death were dreaming, there’d be no Hell
“Oh, I’ll fly away, dear Jesus,”
when the strings and co. come to town
swooping in and out of appreciation
between epiphany
and wonder transcending


Like the Guy that never got married

Running toward darkness
looking for someone who doesn’t have to smile,
searching for a mirror
so not to change myself–
too lazy to make time for devotions or
do I really want a wife that won’t be praying for me?

do I martyr myself with delusions of sacrifice:
breaking covenants and burning the cow
I’ve been given quite a few after all
to write poems about

if dreams are standards, this is a nightmare
can two reserved persons fall in love
and still love the world
like the Guy that never got married


An unlit firecracker decomposing in an underwear drawer

fire spells relief
shimmering in the night sky–
if I’d just eat or kiss or maybe even belong
I
‘d be happy.
running from entertainment every Friday,
opportunities to bless, to leave Jesus behind
treading where I’ve tread before,
yes, circular””but not waiting for you to depress
I
t r a n s v e r s e a translucent chord:
the roommate invites to talk with the room-less in smoky bars,
the friend invites to watch the movie about camaraderie,
alone, hugging myself with artistry
desperate to produce
a great life
I
write.


Am I Jesus?

says she is no good friend,
another will not cease saying that I am:
interlinked in stomach knots taxed
by the sieve of time straining, I collapse after each one
shares–pain divides: a miraculous healing.



© 1993-2024 by Stephen M. James.