The 60-Second Sabbath

A Caution for Parents

That something lived beneath my bed
was simply not the question.
"That thing is all inside your head,"
was Mama's stern suggestion.

But then one evening while she frowned
beside the bed and lectured,
it grabbed her ankles, pulled her down,
as I had long conjectured.

The last I saw were painted nails
a'clawin' at the carpet,
and then a silence 'neath the rails
that I will long interpret

as Mama's just and right desserts
because she would not listen.
When parents snub their children's hurts,
they often end up missin'. 

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Dream 3

I dream that I am a ghost.

Without any recollection of my death,
I now live in my hometown
in an expanded version
of my father's Victorian era office.
It is somewhat of a reunion--
I live here with dozens of other ghosts like me,
many my peers,
including people with whom I grew up.
Now we are dead
and gathered here.

This night--
my "homecoming"--
we talk and mingle,
laugh and reconnect.
I meet other ghosts;
I'm given a tour
and a room that I will share.
I move by thought alone.
I understand mysteries.
My heart melts with love and benevolence.
I feel peaceful, intrigued.

But through it all,
the question begs,
"How do I let my family and friends
know I'm gone
and how close I actually am? "

I know the answer:
I never will.
This is, after all, death.
Even though those I love
live mere blocks away,
the gulf between us
(the chasm of death)
cannot be crossed
until they themselves
choose the crossing.

This mansion of ghosts
is a beautiful, old house,
large with camaraderie
and waiting... 

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Native Tongue

English is my second language.

Poetry is my first.

Do you want to understand me?
Do you want to be understood?
Engage me with symbol and simile,
metaphor and ritual,
evocation and allusion,
the resonant, resounding play of syllables,
the engaging, enriching arc of imagery.

This I hear.
This I see.
This I feel.

Oh, I can speak English when necessary,
but when it matters--
when heart speaks to heart,
and soul to soul--
I revert to my native tongue,
the sacra lingua:

poetry.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

The Vacuum

Nature abhors a vacuum.

When, on the cross,
the darkening blood of Jesus
spilled from its tubing,
vacated his veins and arteries,
escaped like rain,
though wood-grained channels,
onto and into the thirsty earth,
what abhorred that emptiness,
rushed to fill it?

We did.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

The Castle

St. Teresa,
Avilan mystic,
mystery see-er,
observer of God's loftiest grandeur
and tiniest marvels,
explains that my soul
stands as a vast castle,
a many-roomed mansion,
an extraordinary, multi-storied highrise,
gilded and jeweled.

Given that--
in the marvelously graced mind
of this, our outwardly simple sister--
my soul
holds the essence of my essence,
this makes of me
an astonishing ediface,
worth careful, honorable
exploration and maintenance.

I shall light lanterns,
    stoke fires,
    sweep away cobwebs,
    make up  beds,
    gleam atop my hill,
    provide refuge for the weary,
    a banquet for wanderers,
    and a soft bed for my Sovereign.

My soul is a castle.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Greasing the Skids

"Grease the skids,"
said his father.

He had no idea
what skids were,
or where or how to grease them,
or what relevance either grease or skids had
to his current problem.

His father was prone
to sudden, short and seemingly certain solutions
to any problem,
all of which spilled glibly
and were largely incomprehensible.

"Grease the skids."
"Keep your nose to the grindstone."
"Never say never."

One day,
if he had the courage,
he would ask his father
to expound--
to take 5 full minutes--
to explain what he meant by,
"Grease the skids,"
and how exactly one does that,
and force him to speak
not from 70 years of mindless mimicry,
but from his heart,
truly and immediately.

He hoped it wouldn't kill the old man--
but then, better to die of sudden honesty,
than to sink slowly into a swamp
of thoughtless, parroted cliches.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Las Vegas Bids Me Good Riddance

My apologies to the good folks of Las Vegas,
most of whom never make their way
to the Strip
unless they work here
(or so the few I've talked with have said),
and no doubt
there are other seedy, sad, money-grubbing,
    facile pockets of American culture,
but none (with the possible exception of Wall Street)
seems quite so intent on capitalizing
on its own emptiness,
so proud of it,
so unabashadly without a point:

    "I am an expensive, wasteful facade,
    an oasis of onanistic self-interest.
    I feed on your lust, insecurity, greed and sadness--
    one more spin,
    one more nearly naked woman (or man),
    one more star appearance
    and you'll be there--
    clutching whatever piece is missing from your puzzle--
    I hold it, just beyond your reach."

I have a feeling
the Las Vegas Strip
is glad to see me go.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Slots

I walk through the casino
to get to the pool.
Slot machines
in a taped-off area,
have been opened up
like patients undergoing heart surgery,
their dark, mechanical innards exposed--
lights off,
sounds silenced,
hearts excised.

Not playmates.
Not friends.
Simply gutless machines
programmed to fool  you
into giving them your money.

I watch people playing.
Some of them
look similar--
robotic,
dazed,
empty...

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Our Message to the World

I'm in Las Vegas
and amazed at the  number of people
from all around the world--
Europeans, Africans, Asians, South Americans...

Why come to Las Vegas?
Yes, it's iconic--
    on the order of Times Square,
    the French Quarter of New Orleans,
    the Grand Canyon,
    Mount Rushmore...
But with what impression do these guests leave?

"Those Americans!
    Such excess!
    Such superficiality!
    Such waste (all that water in the middle of the desert)!
    Such commercialism!
    Such an obsession with physical perfection!"

I don't suppose
any of them
believes the Las Vegas Strip
is real,
but how many
leave with the impression
that we are a nation
of self-indulgent buffoons?

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

Just off the Strip

I walk off the Strip,
carrying my camera,
documenting my experience.

Next time you're in Vegas,
try this.

Two blocks away,
you'll find fenced off,
walled off
rubble.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.