blank page
virgin-pure, unseeded, fallow
too much peril to disturb
the empty, soft, and truthless-
best to leave it
toothless

but see its pale and un-inked face!
on which the pride-blind shrinker
in a moment’s squinting pause
has scribbled
with a silent
knife

strong-strapped by pallid indolence
to perfect fools’ blank paranoia,
stifled truth bleeds darkly down-
brief ink that
in a moment
flies

thus sloth bedimmed correctness
soft and smugly slays the chance-
pride holds a crooked blindfold
‘round his geometric eyes-
his terror
dies

see! treasured twixt those
steel-straight guides
trapped beauty wastes!
as untraced space
-the bloodied barren earth-
indicts the tongue-tied coward’s
violation
each spliced second’s hesitation
darkly drips the guilt-thick blood-
sodden stains the fallow, foiled soil.

—–

James is a Reformed Evangelical Protestant, who worships at Christ Church (CREC) in Spokane, Washington; he is an independently homeschooled rising Senior who writes poetry because of who he is not. He would, while he has their attention, like to express his respect for the PAN contributors, particularly his friend JRA, and the poets L.C. Russell and N.E. Embrey.   His poem is intended to illustrate the destructive effect of perfectionism, when used as an screen to maintain silence’s invulnerablilty. It is as frightfully irregular as is its subject matter.

Yahweh speaks. He shatters steel by laughing.
Castles crumble. Kings of earth are nothing

like this mighty King, whose heavy throne
is paved in sapphire, capped with clearest stone.

Yahweh roars. His fearsome voice of fire
flashes forth from heaven, full of ire.

Amidst the lighting blast, hard hail and thunder,
Yahweh tears the deepest parts asunder,

rips open mother’s wombs, strips forests bare.
Without a sacrifice no one may dare

approach Him. He is God, the great I AM.
His holiness demands a spotless lamb.

And yet the one who gathers in His fists
the winds and waters, oceans and their mists

has come to earth, in lowly birth, a son
of men, no less a son of God, the one

who takes away our pride and lust for blood,
who washes us in His baptismal flood.

Who is this man with feet of burnished bronze,
with eyes aflame, the first of many sons?

Surely you know His name! He is the same
great King who speaks, who roars, whose fame

endures forever, and whose iron rod
shatters earthen pots and on them trods.

His name is Christ the Lord, and with His laugh
the rulers of this earth are blown like chaff

away, away. They fall and never rise,
those fools, together who seek after lies.

Put them on a scale. They are but vapor,
ghosts and phantoms who can barely whisper.

Christ is a heavy rock, a castle strong,
His brothers, too, a massive, stalwart throng

of Yahweh’s sons, who though they are but dust
will have their bodies raised because they trust

in Christ, who conquered death, whose glory near
first bids them die then “Rise, and have no fear.”

Hear now our cry to you, O God! Come down
and make your saints to wear the golden crown,

the heavy crown, that comes only through loss
of self and death, through bearing our own cross.

Make us men of metal for Christ bled
to purify our dross and melt our lead.

Conform us to His image, now we plea.
Give us silver hair, bright eyes to see

the foe, so that when we in battle meet,
we strike him with your sword and stand with feet

of bronze, unmoved upon your holy word,
our hearts and minds by shield of faith assured.

Give us bones of iron double-strong,
mercuric-veins and sterling lips for song.

Cast our throats in brass, our praises strengthen.
Make our voices trumpets, horns of heaven.

May we on your holy mountain roar,
like Christ, our lion, who though dead before,

arose, and knocked the devil’s iron gates
down, down. Death, also, awaits

destruction, while our King with flaming sword
still marches on. We follow him, O Lord.

We are his battalion, drawn from ore,
refined in furnaces and cooled to core.

Meld us into one! Make us become
an alloy pure, a precious, white amalgam.

Then, finally, erect in lasting bronze
our monuments, memorials and songs,

so that our words and works e’en after death
would weighty be, and more than but a breath.

Raise these to your glorious throne above.
Raise this weight of glory, raise our love,

and cause the golden city of your Son
with this tremendous weight to come undone

in heaven, and to fall from sky to earth
and usher in creation’s final birth.

Because, O Christ, when death at last you quell,
Heaven will be heavier than hell.

______________________________________

I was told I had to write a third person bio:

The author of this poem is a good looking, smooth dancing, aspiring chemical engineer named Pete. Pete hails from Chicago, and worships at Christ Covenant Church of Chicago (CREC), http://www.christcovenantchicago.org/. Pete also uses Facebook chat to send messages like “LOL” to Hannah Roorda. Hence the poem. The poem was born out of the idea that glory is heavy and that in Christ, who is our glory, all that we are becomes heavy like Him.