the deep silent ones...
out of bounds of his
most vicious handlers,
be they men or demons,
...known only to you
God and inspired by
your Holy Spirit.
for green lacewings float
up like silent prayers
only to be devoured,
mid-flight, by
ravenous dragonflies.
Gary Edward Geraci
What’s this, new language?
“An emotional affair...”
You are joking right?
Gary Edward Geraci
Tongues are a special anatomical invention
venting and will-work-wagging with varying convention.
Cute, creep-crawl creatures slurp slick-soft slugs and shoot
sticky, slop-mass-mounds of evolved flesh: pounce, reboot,
repeat, then lick. Look, the sublingual solitude
of a berry sized seed buried and
booed
for being so bothersome to the lingual
advantages
of being rational and speaking several languages;
bilingual; slow, but with strong accents and sloppy bursts
of, oh yes, ‘yeast-yawn’ palatals, well rehearsed
but, well, with sub-par pronunciation. The tongue’s
highest use, I think then, is as throne: the Son’s
place of respite leaving one tongue-tied with Majesty.
No wonder it’s so wonderful but wandering south can be a travesty,
just west of wicked minded inclination,
puffed and gassy, it is “Glossitis,” the glossy, grassy nation
where sometimes tongues don’t work so well and messy faces
and fingers result and things are said that spoil spaces.
A beloved creature, the tongue is drawing immense
pleasure in the eyes and heart of Coherence,
a beaming and affectionate Countenance,
the fruit of his satisfaction and love for tongue parlance,
of which his Son took one when he became Man,
learning to lip with lap, love and chat with twelve chosen kinsmen.
Gary Edward Geraci
A kind of deficiency in my kind to be kind,
cravenness has bred cruelty, contempt of self the moldings of a misanthrope
and brutal loathing, lonesomeness - the liquidation of every liberty with impunity.
For we slapped each other’s backs,
congratulatory because we were all born under the dogma but now are no longer slaves, emancipated, no longer on parole, but unified in our discontent for fugitive pleasures, the rights to be free we have so dreadfully fought for. So what can you promise me with any lasting substance or depth oh fleeting liberty? The finality of an act with no encore.
Gary Edward Geraci
Their focus is on Shanghai, the way
They’re bustling back, once again living for the day,
While our own beloved streets here in the USA
Apparently ringing of suffering and death? but why? is it because? - hey!
Look around, everywhere we’ve traveled they
Are out and about, people bathing in Pagosa Springs, the lay
Faithful are trying to pack the churches while women bring offerings and bursting red colored clusters of dried green chilies in Santa Fe,
And there is dancing in the streets in Durango, Silverton, and Ouray.
A penitent nation flies through the fiery rhymes of Alexander Hamilton
And Feser’s five, foolhardy proofs for God’s existence (making more sense now than before the pandemic).
Small crowds are gathering to sing the National Anthem,
Looking each other in the eyes and searching for an end to it.
Filipino food in Clovis, RVs, railroads, and cattlemen...
The country’s blazing back while the media’s waxing poetic - pathetic!
Gary Edward Geraci
To trust in the power of a mental prayer
Said in faith and love is more than flat and bare.
To gather oneself in focus and with fixed stare,
Pray big and for peace in countries everywhere.
A mystery, this moving of mental substance,
Unheard to others yet flowing abundance;
Petition and praise; sins felt with reluctance.
Angels and saints and our Lord in the Monstrance
Have left a historical record of good,
Leaving no question about whether you should.
It’s well enough to know that God said you could;
Chosen to send prayer out if you only would.
Choose to set aside a fixed time and place,
Or take those times you’re prone to just stare in space,
Or run useless thoughts like you’re running a race,
And trust in the Lord and in His mighty grace.
Gary Edward Geraci
i’m so contingent,
born of two people, but i’ll
die in His image.
Gary Edward Geraci
(In memory of Edward Van Halen)
A hierarchy grounded in bass notes with crescendos of rapid-fire scaling thrust beyond the established confines of what was considered proper at the time, Mother’s warning ignored while mother and my brothers sit in the first row. As a simultaneous fall of four fingertips across the shoulder blades of a lover, rather a sequential falling and then a brush, a soft sweeping thumb caress across the high ridge of each blade - the slide of the tips, a sensation, a tingle - like finger tapping strings on a fret board and one making a living distorting electrified strings, bending and stretching both highs and lows, lows and highs, the sounds deafening our ears, ringing and the fog of smoke burning our eyes, tearing and the scent of cannabis filling our nostrils, inhaling - all the while realizing much later in life that all was grounded in the loving presence of the First Cause.
Gary Edward Geraci
Of the differences between man and
woman here’s one: these hands. Not to forget,
it’s a woman who births these manly hands.
A man’s hands to elevate your Body, to
consecrate bread and wine, yes, a man’s hands,
a man’s hands to hold her close, to keep her
forever. But a man’s hands profaned and
pillagers are imprisoned from their potential.
When I see his hands I see mine. What lame
cause of action has kept these hands barren,
his fruitful. A man’s hands meant to consecrate
to bear much fruit. I look at them, how I
have commissioned them, what true capacity
lie wasting, henceforth to be awakened.
Many manly hands have had grace slip through
the fingers, covered the ears, covered the
eyes, covered the mouth and never uttered
your Sacred Name nor lifted your Body
and Blood. These hands of mine I study them
closely, a reflection of what could have been.
Gary Edward Geraci
