Postcard 135

The little boy who's parents were lost at sea
sat in the sturdy white chapel upon the hill.
Standing plain before two empty boxes,
the deacon spoke of Jesus' feet across the water
and how the savior soundly slept through rough waves
and, woken by the frightened crew, arose
to calm the sea with his voice and with his hand.
When the service was done the little boy left alone
and walked up the hill to the grassy bluffs overlooking the placid seas
Not a ripple suggested a wave
Not a shimmer betrayed treachery
The boy stood at the edge and yelled out
I do not forgive you!
I do not forgive you!
The sea remained.
But his little hand shook with the thrill

Postcard 134

There will be many nights of broken glass.
Its time to lace up high our heavy boots
Light will crystal-scatter underfoot
and it will cut. Cinch tight cinch tight
Is it true still that truth redeems?
In twilight, that will be hard to see.
Even blind, its time to step out firm and sure
The light doesn't fail. It's only dispersed.
Obscured. There will be ashes in the air.
Each day will taste the same, more bitter than the one before
Its time to spit out into dark, and step to where it lands
We may cry, but never mind the salty trails on grubby face
Our path is crystal clear
Its time to lace up boots. Its time to tug on gloves
Its time to step out into it and cinch up weary eyes
to grasp tight friendly hands
Twilight twilight of the night. Twilight of the dawn.
Its time to put rough clothes on. Its time top lace up tight
Civil twilight is so different than at sea
Only brightest start can guide in half-light
Its time to search in gloom to scan for what cannot be obscured
There will be many nights of broken glass to be endured
we see by scattered light. Pull on. wrap up, cinch tight and grasp
Walk out to the angry red. Is it night?
Spit bitter back. Is it night?

Postcard 133

What I am doing, no one else can do. Bend a few ears. What I am doing is mechanical -- a camera's lens. Catch, in every aperture, the sprightly resonance, always always at the corners - the sprightly resonance of love. What I am doing, no one else can do. Wide angle love is the constant joke of a universe in bloom. Recall -- it's all mechanical. What I do, no one else can do. I am the focal point of every parallel wave. Telephoto love is the I see you. Yes you. What you are doing, no one else can do. Close cropped, fine focused, rule of thirds. Allow. Allow the linear features to flow from section to section. What I do, no one else can do. Fish eye, fish eye -- peering out and through, bending a few ears, bending  light. Love of sky, wide and bent -- a hemisphere. No one can do what we do, but try. Chase and capture the corners, the sprightly resonance. What I do, no one else can do.