Sunday, January 27, 2013

Cloudbursts on the frontlines



From on aloft, King David espied Bathsheba bathing in her courtyard.
He had her brought into his presence; entering… 
into her scented precincts — ensuing a pregnant tussock.
Summoned he Uriah come home, wash his feet — attend to Bathsheba.

A consideration then by the King one might think? 
An anachronism today, but then, contact between the two however brief
would surely have shrouded the nature developing in the sprouting womb.
To hide the mushrooming pregnancy… that was the brief!

Steadfastly refused Uriah, the Kings command — attend to Bathsheba.
A Hittite beholden to Deuteronomy; in essence renege your command, 
to smite "anything that breathes,” those teaching you to follow all, 
the detestable things they do in worshiping their gods.” 
Towards this obedience; in the pains of battle all coital relations shunned. 

There would be no washing of feet, the carnal would be spurned. 
King David not immune to this understanding; dispatched he —  
into battle Uriah, ordering Joab, commander and kingmaker rolled in one: 
ensconce him at the front — have his men move away; let him perish!

Thus was killed Uriah, whose name means: 
God is my Light; one of King David’s mighty men!
And Nathan the prophet said it as it was:  An abomination — 
he decried, pointing at David leaving nothing unsaid…
Absalom insurrected.

Coming down to today, we have King Davids acolytes… morphed 
into his erstwhile enemies, the Ammonites. Even the marrow shudders!
And one has made it to the front, or was it that the front moved behind 
or is it that, the front is the pasture where the wolf seeks the lamb? 
Yet there is no barbed wire. But food must make it to the table. 

Before one knew it, one turned itinerant.
An itinerancy of a nature much like illiteracy, the denial of movement, 
tongue, be-ing, humanity: a state of being where titles mean little, 
the earnings even less. But food is now on the table. 
A repast in lieu of past deprivation? That deserves thanks and praise!? 

On the front, smitten by cloudbursts of deceits… 
a fakery of cooing, a consummate dispassion extracting labor,  
rolling eyes, soft shoe shuffling, bodies packed in two sizes too small.  
And pain is all around. We maintain politesse! 

There is no discernible ball and chain. Yet we surrender to the treachery.
Is there a Nathan now, other than that faint namesake for hamburgers! 
Who sheds light? Will things pass? Will they overrun my being?

Now pain livens up my being. How is this possible? The front is cold;
warm those ensconced in the knowledge of conceits: pain embraces.

Christ resurrected on day three. Is there hope through his becoming man?

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