A. Sea Herndon

The Poetry of A. Sea Herndon

Month: December, 2014

To Our Lady of the Broken Rosary

To Our Lady of the Broken Rosary

Though my lips are not worthy

To sing of your name

O Mother Faultless

Born without blame

I, shameful sinner,

Stand stained in sin

With a soul foul and black

As the ink of this pen

I pray, Holy Mother,

You show me the way

And guide this lost child

From Night into Day

Show me your Love

And the Mercy of Christ

So may all my failures

Lead others to Life

Pray guide me to Goodness

Pray guide me to Love

To your Holy Son Jesus

And His Father above

My rosary’s broken

As broke as my heart

Please sew back, Dear Mama

What this fool’s torn apart

Please pick up your child

And wipe dry his tears

Kiss all his bruises

And ease all his fears

Cradle me, Mother

And rock me to sleep

Brush back my hair

Saying, “Child, don’t weep”

Sing to me, Mama

A lullaby song

Tell me it’s okay

And to be big and strong

Play with me, Mother

And teach me to play

By myself and with others

To be grateful each day

For what God has given

For what God has withheld

For all of the roses

I’m beginning to smell

Sit by me, Mother

And hold this weak hand

And raise me like Jesus

To be a good man

Help me be a good father

Help me be a good son

Help me be a good husband

Help me follow the One

The One who is Three

The Three who are One

The Spirit and Father

And your Holy Son

We are all family

And you are our Mom

And just as His Kingdom

May your Queendom come!

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Reconcilable Differences

Reconcilable Differences

There are no “fuck you’s” in any of my prayers

if there are “goddamns” they squarely point at me

I know not what monster you’ve imagined

I know not what monster I have been

Like Jacob’s Ladder I climb stairs

but all they all slip out from under me

a monster monstrously in-saddened

two it takes to reconcile sin

I failed

I failed

I failed

I failed

I failed

I failed myself, my God, and you

Suicide is easy as a nightmare

Forgiveness hard as nails pound to a tree

Pheasant Hunting

Pheasant Hunting

Nineteen below

by Fahrenheit’s count

just “damn cold” in Kansas

boots and bird-dogs

crack the Western silence

crunch the ice

of close-cropped fields of milo

There are a string of isolated men

alone enough to hunt together

Far on the horizon:

a silo suggests

that something must have grown here once

long ago as some lost Eden

& windmills stand

giants really

lined up like pheasant hunters

their blade-like arms

mocking turn

as if time itself did not exist

turning frozen breath into electricity

for some impossible unseen city

on some impossible unseen hill

I am wont to take a gun

and tilt at them

Snowdrift thoughts

days are dreams

the landscape flat as lifeless

And then as if by magic

from the frozen dust of the earth

a bird flaps up to paint the sky

greens and reds splashed onto gray

an intricate study of browns and black

but purples too

and iridescent blues

an unbelievable design

designed for unbelievers

But we have seen!

We have believed!

Someone yells

shots are fired

& as quickly as he rose

the phoenix falls back to the ashes

a snowfall of soft feathers

follows back to seed the barren soil

Indescribable beauty

irrefutable death

the brevity of the moment

both bird and man

now startled

To my sons and fellow kinsman, happy hunting this weekend & be safe!

The Weight of a Mustard Seed

The Weight of a Mustard Seed

Does my doubt

outweigh my faith

when I turn

& see your face

& you are standing oh so close

nearby

you will not even 

look me in the eye

that not-now look

across your face

Does my doubt

outweigh my faith?

Does my despair

outweigh my hope

when like a poem

without a trope

I lean to kiss

you pull back leaning

and life and language

lose all meaning

when like a poem

without a trope

Does my despair

outweigh my hope?

Doubt and despair

they do outweigh

both all my hope

and all my faith

when what I say

gets no response

the shoulder cold

dead and calm

Doubt and despair

they do outweigh

and so I cry

and then I pray

Adam’s Seed

Adam’s Seed

In this land of Free and Brave

‘neath purpled mountains bruised with shame

the bloodied amber fields are paved

with tiny unmourned infant graves:

No R.I.P.’s, no family names,

the sole inscription: biowaste.

As Progress digs with spades of haste,

we shop online, smartphones displayed,

vaguely anxious of climate change.

The Holocene meets Judgment Day.

Repent! Repent, Oh Roe v. Wade

for soon we join them in the grave.

From founding father to unbreathed breath,

give me liberty and I choose death.

A woman’s right to choose, her own

unless she’s killed in utero.

 

 

“Poets, come out of your closets, 
Open your windows, open your doors, 
You have been holed-up too long 
in your closed worlds. 
Come down, come down…

…All you Catholic anarchists of poetry…

…Awake and walk in the open air.”

-Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Populist Manifesto No. 1

 

DSCN1179

L’enfant terrible, 2008.

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The Ghost of Christmas Passed

The Ghost of Christmas Passed

The Ghost of Christmas passed today

and there was fear and quaking

my heart beat fast, my body swayed

and both my hands were shaking

“Benign essential tremor,”

the neurologist did say

But this man knows a miracle

when one comes swimming up his way

It swam right up, swam right past

swam like the Holy Spirit

and standing cold in mortal frost

I knew I did not merit

such sacred visitations

in such salty sinful sorrowed flesh

such mystic revelations

to a borrowed life betrothed to death

with all the palpitations

that come with ecstasy and fear

and all the excitations

of memories of years and years

amidst annihilation

but He what made the Universe

born forth in blood and tears

took on this humble human form

brings forth the joy of sinful men

’cause first it brings them fear

The monumental sacred act

the real-time real world simple fact:

Word made flesh

abolished death

fearful, fearful, fearful rest

I’ve made my bed in a crèche of straw

I’ve made my bed in a tomb of stone

Good God, let me repent it

What I have done, I’ve done alone

I’ve made my bed

I’ve made my bed

And yet you come and sleep in it

A.  Sea Herndon, channeling the Ghost of Christmas Past. 20 Days 'til the Christmas Vigil!

A. Sea Herndon, channeling the Ghost of Christmas Past. 20 days ’til the Christmas Vigil!