The Golden Age (a poem)

"She's got a rule. She never dates her friends."
"I know," he said. "I really hate that rule...."

She keeps it, though, and she is all alone.
Alone at home, at work when it gets bad.
There's trouble in the air, has been for years,
Then something breaks one quiet afternoon
At a presidential speech.
A kid is killed, and soon it's on the news
And riots follow, cities start to burn.
There's soldiers in the streets, and all too soon
There's bombs.
And she is all alone.

She goes back to a place she once called home,
To friends who all among them made her world
And quietly they watch this world burn down.
All huddled up, squeezed tight on that sad couch
In his tiny apartment, second floor,
And wonder what the future holds in store.

For days it's dazed and frightened disbelief.
At night their only light is CNN.
Then Dave hears that his boss has got a plan
The governor needs him to craft a speech
A bold address to set the city right
And bring back hope and reason, end the fight.
They go -- these four, these friends, these college buds.
They're kids, but they've been called to save the world
And only one has doubts -- in that, she's all alone.

More bombs in store, more death than they could guess
But through it all, he holds them to the course.
He's brave for her -- he saves the day for her --
But in the end they all are heroes true.
Here in the quiet Heartland, they wake up.
They face a dragon, slay a villain dark,
And live storybook lives in too-real life.

But then it's done. It's done, and they're all safe,
But her mother back home is so afraid.
Her dad is, too, and asks her to come back.
To leave her friends, and come back to her home.
And hero though he is, her friend, she's got a rule.
So she goes home, to grander stories yet....

And she is all alone.

Sad Little Cloud (a poem)

In perfect honesty there have been times
When I wanted to say, "That's it! I'm done."
Too tired, too exhausted by your grief,
And suffering in the shadow of your pain.
You've hurt, and yes I know that hurt was real
(And no, my happy life cannot compare)
But all your misery is wasted time --
A gift to grief, withheld from those you love.
You're so much more than tragedy.

You've never known a perfect life at home --
No gentle father-man to wrap you up,
No shining beacon Mom, so pure and true,
No happy Christmas photo family.
And then, your spirit's been betrayed by flesh --
When your own mind became the enemy,
When reason could not conquer cruel thoughts,
When friends and lovers could not understand.
You're so much more than tragedy.

I've seen you try and try to prove that true --
To live a normal life, to make it work
When whispered voices swear it's wasted time.
"You'll never live the picture postcard life."
They're right. But don't believe the worst of it.
You're destined to far more than normal gives.
I've seen you shine, seen miracles firsthand
But you lament the things you cannot do.
You're so much more than tragedy.

I know you want perfection and no less.
I know you've tasted bitter, cruel fate.
I know you've lost more dearly than you've made.
I know how hard you work so you won't cry.
But people fall in love with this sad cloud.
They gather to your dark like moths to flame.
Not for the shade, but for the light you hide --
Deprive to those who'd give their lives to you.
You're so much more than tragedy.

Be more. Be more. And every day be more.
Find paths that bring you out into the light,
Find dreams that make you smile, that make you hope,
Find friends who cheer, and tales that tell you truth.
And look for truth -- for happy truth no less.
Look for the shinning light that draws them in,
Look for the you that made me write this verse,
And get to know that person like I do.
You're so much more than tragedy.
Believe.

September Seventeen (a poem)

You're Alexander, son.
You're born, you're named, you're blessed to be a king.
It's up to you to choose where you end up,
But already you've conquered hearts, and bent some lives to you--
At two weeks old.

You're Alexander, son.
You're stronger than you ought to be, but only just begun.
There's power in your name and mighty destiny bestowed,
And world enough for you to shape your dreams
And make them real.

You're Alexander, son.
I've known your name for decades. Since I was a boy myself
I've known I'd shake your hand, and look you in the eye
And teach you how to cope, or hope -- to break or make the world,
And trust in God.

You're Alexander, son.
With riches already in store, the wealth of nations at your hand
In all the loving wisdom of your friends -- a hundred friends
All waiting, all breathless, on that first day when you were born.
Yours to the end.

You're Alexander, son.
And you could conquer states, or you could light unrighteous dark,
Could tame some scary wilderness we don't yet know exists,
Or live a quiet, happy life at home. It matters not.
We will love you.

My Tens of Thousands

I'm an observant person. I'm introspective and extrapolative. I spend a lot of time thinking about how the world really is, and how that information should affect my decisions. I call this careful consideration my "governing intellect" -- not that it does a ton of governing. It ends up being more a source of guilt (that I don't follow my reason) than a helpful tutor. But still, I sometimes heed its advice -- and sometimes to my own detriment.

Once upon a time, not too long ago, the Lord said to my governing intellect, "Come and sit by my side." I'm not a proud man. I went and I sat. The man had some interesting things to say.

I have always lived a charmed life. This has manifested in mundane ways (a happy, prosperous family environment, an upbringing with a strong emphasis on education, and an inborn talent with the written word), and in ways mystical (I've never lost real money in a game of poker).

I've long recognized this effect in my life, and rarely taken it for granted. I remember reading the Odyssey early in high school and recognizing an easy familiarity with Odysseus, beloved of Athene. He was clever and careful, but even so, he had help. Things ever fell his way. So also with me.

In our own lore there's another like him, and I've also often compared myself to King David. Chosen and blessed, set apart to do great things, I had nothing to fear from even the mightiest of enemies. That became my refrain. I can't count the times I've whispered under my breath, "Lord, let me pass unseen through the camp of my enemies."

He took me aside recently, though, and reprimanded me. That has been too much my attitude. When a university-level teaching job fell into my lap -- money we sorely needed and an opportunity many people invest years of their lives just to apply for -- I spent days and weeks and months just worrying, just hoping that I could survive. I just wanted to get through it, hopefully without drawing any attention to myself, and make it to December in one piece.

Oh humble yes, he said, but humble son of God!

There is so much more to David than the slinking thief, discreetly hemming his king's old cape. An heir is made not just to survive, but to reign. I've spent years hiding in my dirty cave, with nary an adversary on the plains below. Anointed and appointed, spending all my gracious charms on nervous getting by, when my role is so much greater. I should be capturing cities to swell my empire. I should be conquering to preserve my name, and to lift up the names of my sons. I've spent long enough as a shepherd, I should long since have become a king.

That failing is on me. The opportunities to rise up are always there -- served up to me on royal finery, and squandered in my timidity even as I proclaim that I'm trembling in fear of the Parable of the Talents. The Lord said to my governing intellect, "Come and sit by my side, and we'll make cautious reason our footstool, because there are far more interesting things going on than your boring old reality."

I can't wait to see my Jerusalem.

Today's Poem

"Baby Nance" by Aaron Pogue

Baby Nance
Potato salad
Sent from my iPhone

Ghost Targets as Formula Fiction

I've had several conversations with people about my Ghost Targets series, and along the way I've surprised a couple of them by talking about the structure of these novels. Because it's consistent -- it's a known value. I aim for a 60,000 word novel, which is relatively light reading. I try to do fifteen 4,000-word chapters, divided evenly into three "acts": the setup or "teaser," the confrontation, and then the resolution. They're built on the "cop drama" framework, which is pretty much the same as the generic Mystery formula, but without some of the stylistic flourishes you'd expect in a whodunnit.

When I start talking like that -- when I say, "I've got a story idea" and then I immediately know what parts of the plot will fall on which page numbers -- a lot of people get this look of disappointment in their eyes, like somehow I'm playing Mad Gab now instead of actually writing new stories. But, y'know, I've thought about it a lot, and here's my answer to that thinking:

It all depends on what you mean when you say "formula." There's nothing wrong with form, like with the pre-set shape of a haiku, or how Shakespeare's sonnets always conform to one framework (with three quatrains and then a rhyme). The books in Katie's story are the same. The quality is only in the content, not how fresh the font or far between the chapter breaks.

But yes, she lives and solves the crime, and often talks with Door who cannot tell her where he is, but gives the key detail. And...leaves you wanting more.

The coolness lies in character and plot. Forget the frame -- ask is it good, or not?

Sinful Saint (a poem)

I've heard you --
full of spirit, right with God --
In reverence and deep humility
Say, "I am just a sinful child
Made clean by God's good love."

I've heard you whisper hope to hurt
and help to those in need.
I've seen you shine
and shape the world
with faith.

But life is long
and comfort short
and sharp the Tempter's sting.
So time to time you'll trip and fall,
or turn and walk away.
Time to time you'll come to earth
and leave Heaven behind.
Time to time you'll gutter
let your flame almost go out.
And then you tremble, full of fear so far from God.

But I am not afraid.
I'm not ashamed, I'm not surprised.
From time to time you fall, as do we all.
But nothing you could do --
no angry word, no selfish choice, no foolish indiscretion --
There's nothing in your power to make untrue
The words you knew with confidence before.
From time to time, from day to day,
No matter where along your way
The best and worst you'll ever say
Is "I am just a sinful child
Made clean by God's good love."

Don't be surprised. Don't be ashamed.
Don't ever be afraid.
Your God forgives, and that is why you call him Lord.

My Little Girl (a poem)

Sometimes I dream of what you'll be,
My little girl, my precious heart,
So many things for you to see
In this big life you've yet to start.

I think you'll be adorable,
Your happy smile, your eyes so wide,
And anything is possible
For you, who fill my heart with pride.

I hope you'll be a brilliant one
But there's so much to understand.
Too soon you'll crawl and walk and run.
Just know I'm there to hold your hand.

I pray that you'll have common sense,
Be blessed with health and grow up strong.
Be full of quiet confidence
And joy that drives you all day long.

I know that you'll be dear to me
No matter how your life may go.
My little girl, with heart so free,
I'll help you live and love and grow.

Dedication: A Prayer

Before she had a name, she was a hope,
A dream, a prayer breathed in her mother's heart.
Before she had a name, she had our love
And all the family she'd ever need.
Before she had a name, sweet Annabelle,
We loved her more than any words could tell.

She has her father's cheeks, her mother's ears,
Her precious little features oh-so-cute.
She has her father's nose, her mother's eyes
That shine when new, exciting life delights.
She has her father's chin, her mother's smile,
And every little bit is beautiful.

Now every day, we face these little fears
As she falls down, or any time she cries.
Now every day, we watch the things she does,
Amazed how fast our little girl has grown.
Now every day, we wonder what she'll be,
What great works by her hand this world will see.

Our god and king, our lord, give her wisdom
And sight enough to learn from her mistakes.
Our god and king, our lord, give her your grace.
Teach kindness, patience, truth, and charity.
Our god and king, our lord, give her your care.
Protect her, and remind her you are there.

In your son's name, and through his gift we pray,
Wash Annabelle with your love, all her days.

Once I Was a Child (A Poem)

Once I was a Child

Have you ever read The Little Prince?
Or Catcher in the Rye? Or just Jesus' admonition,
"Blessed are these little ones."
There's a purity in joy and hope that only children know.
Crave that peaceful chaos.

I grew older, though, and outgrew those things.
I've grown old enough already to yearn for those lost things.
I cast aside the unassailable might of childhood, but cling, day by day, to all its weaknesses.

I feel, still, like a little child,
Confused, scared, unprepared,
And dropped into a great big world.

Now I'm chasing, every day, after learning, after answers,
After all the things I'll need when I'm grown up....
Then I recall, my heart all gripped in terror, that the time has come and passed.

Oh, I am grown.
I've stepped into my life, put on adulthood like a costume.
It's a role I'm always playing, now.
I tremble, and worry someone will notice, will see through my disguise.

I'm just a child, guessing at my world.
I stumble and I fall, I burn my hand and scrape my knees, every single day.
I hide, from what I am, and from what I am not.

When does that end?
Will I outgrow this, too, or go on faking 'til that role is second-nature?
Will I die a fraud, or someday, old and grey, discover that it's true,
Now, at last, with no one left to listen, that I can truly say,
I am all grown up.

What truly makes me shudder, when I stop and think,
Is all the precious things that I have broken, in the course of this deceit.
Clumsy child, foolish acts, and Mom's fine vase in pieces on the floor.
I do that still, but this is my real life.
I am already there, surrounded by responsibilities my heart can't comprehend.

Though I pretend,
I play the part,
And I'm afraid.

The King, to the Poet (A Poem)

The King, to the Poet

Something happened, when no one was looking.
Quietly, politely, we tore it all down--
Ages old, majestic and mighty, we tore it down to build something new.

Shiny and new.

It was a tapestry once, that told a story around which we built our lives.
It was a mighty whole, a single fabric, built of myriad mysterious pieces.

With the blessing of all (or all but the fringe) we took it apart.

We took the shiny pieces and the pretty pieces and the useful pieces
And put them to work,
Doing our bidding (we once did its), and serving us in strength.

We marvel then at what our lives have become,
All built of artificial fibers and synthetic materials.
Appropriated. Misused.

And what of that old rag, that ancient tapestry?
It's tatters now, of course, torn to shreds and threadbare
All that's left behind.

And those same who plundered it now mock it for all the things it lacks.
For all the holes, for all the inconsistencies and flaws--
For gaps, that they had made.

There are gaps, and holes. Places where things once were,
Where things shiny and things pretty and things useful used to be.
It's not the rag that's torn, though.

The single piece is shattered, scattered, but its fragments still as strong.
Alas, they no longer grow as one.

You see, it was a living thing. It breathed the life of man.
We killed it, for our own ends -- butchered it, for our wealth.
We took its intellect, to make us wise.
We took its heart, to learn some sort of kindness.
We took its soul, to give us more than life.
We took its might, its powers, its strength to change the world, and we made the world we wanted.

We still have all the pieces, and look how much they change our lives.
We killed the thing to get them, though.

We could start anew, of course. Some have tried.
We could make a new fabric, and start the ages-long process of giving it life,
Weave in the first of many threads, and make a gift to our descendants.
We're a world of scavengers, though.
We've made our lives out of plundered parts now, and we're not about to stop.

Start another if you want. It can be done.
But I'll tell you this, my prophecy and sigh:
They'll watch,
And they'll point and laugh,
They'll criticize everything that is not what the old thing was.

Then they'll take everything that's good, and mock you all the more.

Greatness: A Poem

Today is like every other day
In one way at least

The dead pity the living.

God: A Poem

He looked me in the eye, and said,
"If I'm going to Hell anyway, I might as well do it."

And none of us has seen him since.

Poetry

Wow....

I never realized I had written so many poems, or how much they said. I could put you guys through a month of Poetry Interpretation 101, and still not be done with my own stuff.

I should be a professor, just to inflict this stuff on my students.

Actually, I'll probably save them up and use them as illustrative comments on my articles. Most of the really good ones are about religion (although I have one about the tension between Myth and Science called "I'll Drag You Back," of which I'm pretty proud).

The main one on my mind right now is "We Call Worship." It's...fascinating.

Refined Understanding (A Poem)

Okay, back to business. This is a poem, not so much proposing my ideas about Social Constructionism, but assuming them and describing their ultimate effects. If you don't see it at first, by all means ask. I'd love to discuss this one. I think of it as one of my most fun poems.

Refined Understanding
They say the trick to making something beautiful—
To making an elephant from a block of ivory—
Is just to carve away whatever
doesn't
look like an elephant.

Take away the corners, sharpened edges
Until you’re left with just the thing
staring back at critical eyes.

It works, you see. It can’t help but work.
You take away what doesn’t match, and everything that’s left
must necessarily serve its purpose.
So if function is your only goal, you’re guaranteed success.

The catch, though—there is a catch—
is that it may always be a little more like an elephant.
There’s always more to carve, to peel away,
and your little figurine gets better…and littler.

The thing is—in all your accuracy—
The thing is—with every little bit you peel away—
The thing is, as you progress and shrink
You seem to forget what got your attention in the first place:
Elephants are big.

I Feel Alive (A Poem)

This is a poem I'm thinking of submitting to the Writer's Digest competition this year. Let me know what you think.

And, yeah, I know you'll all be wondering, so I'll just tell you now to keep you from having to ask. It's Chris O'Donnell.

I Feel Alive….
I feel alive…
Like, what it means to feel alive--
Not just surviving, simply pressing on….
I feel alive, all full of life:
Vibrant, virulent, vital.

In a storm, a terrible storm all raging,
I am become the lightning strike.
Flare, fire, discharge.
Explosive and blinding and impossible to ignore.
I feel alive….

At midnight,
all the world asleep,
And the clouds conceal the paltry silver lights
and the wind's a whisper, nothing more….
I am become the huntingbird's shriek
The wolf's sharp howl
The piercing cry of a predator, so mighty in his element.
I feel alive….

In the desert,
I'm the rain, cold as ice on burning skin.

In a blizzard,
I'm a fire, pop and crackle and warmth that almost hurts.

In your dreams,
I'm the moment that wakes you screaming, or smiling, or panting for breath.

I feel all full of life:
The biting of a bluster wind,
The whipcrack of a breaking limb,
The shattering of fine stained glass--
or of expensive crystal--
The bitter taste of blood,
The thunder of your heartbeat
when you've run too hard,
The pang of hunger, want, or need.
I am become loneliness and violence and pain…
And beauty, sweetly whispered or crashing down in waves.
I am become all the shining, pounding, loud sensations
that make a man alive.

I feel alive…
because of you.

In Loving Memory of God (A Poem)

In Loving Memory of God
The last time that I tore my clothes to shreds
And dressed in sacks, with ashes on my head
And fell upon my knees at Mercy Seat,
I thought of you, my God, and you seemed real.

The last time I placed lamb upon the stone—
A lamb that I had raised by my own hand
And tearfully I slit its precious throat—
I drowned beneath the power of your love.

The last time Holy Wrath made justice real
Before my eyes, condemning sin with fire,
I knew your truth could defeat temptation,
And whispered, "God forgive my vicious heart."

The last time Heaven bent the world for man
And sickness melted from a broken heart
I watched a friend I’d loved rise from the dead
And felt your awesome name upon my lips.

Where is the Ghost so fiery in our texts?
Where is your magic in the world today?
Where have you gone, or from you where have we?
Or have we killed you at last?