One

So awe fulled the birthing
             of God's presence, new cauled

             in humble manger's destiny,

The base and apex of
             a starred cave's presents
             of all future festivals

Yet abandoned, forsaken to

             the crowned world's nails,

             every man's cursedness;

Farthest reach of faith

             this Apocalypso dancer

             crosses the Cosmos,

Morning us night-less;

             he compassions Earth
             ever peopling Heaven,

Emptying the pitiless bottom

             zeroing Apollyon 

             into ever's Now

Beloved one, Yeshua

             child of the masses
             point man for us all.

Daniel E. Wilcox

Published in The Green Silk Journal

Winter 2007

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The Essence of Software

Why is the metal-cased T.V.

                                              fine, structurally sound,

                                                       but my loving wife of 60 years

                                                                                                            Slowly dies?

What repair man can I call

                             to have her tinkered with

                                           so her inside will remain vibrant and joyous—

                                 that we might share another year together

                                                                    in our odyssey through this hard land?

Why isn't there a warranty for her?

"Guaranteed, Call 1-700, Zenith Lasts!"

Already I picture the scene,

                 the day coming soon like a tsunami

                                        that will roar through our lives and

                                                                                                   drown us all.

I will stand

                                            Lone

without an umbrella

                                            in the soft, vicious rain

and stare

               down

               at the immaculate metal coffin

that will endure for centuries—stainless steel, you know—while

my wife

's corny humor

(like the time she pretended                     will be gone.

a hot dog was a cigar)     

How obscene…the coffin will gleam with color--

the little blue angels

in the panels and the chrome handles—long lasting like the T.V.

But

my wife will not endure,

                                         not even appear in black and white.

And the only reruns

                                 will be in my head

                                                                until my own show

                                                                                                is cancelled.

The T.V. will remain—

Well, maybe not….

It too will wear out

                                and be dumped

                                                              into some landfill

 to corrode and rust

                                                                                       to oblivion.

 Is there syndication for humans?                               

Daniel E. Wilcox

Published in La Fenetre
Fall 2007

A Word from the Tree

Marathon gunner in the fast lane

Hastening faster and faster,

You that break the home barrier but

Hang in the void of the morning's dash

Held back by the hog of the rush,

Fidgeting the taillights'

Gating hurry to the sixth power

While your family's lives asteroid by;

Slow up by the lush garden side

And smell the satined moments;

Pleasing is the scented bask

In the warm temporariness

Of fleeting ephemeral's harvest;

Shelter under Life's tree,

Tasting the clustered presence

And the fruitage of your offspring.

Lay down the bulging semi of yet to be driven

That Sisyphean hauling up never's pass,

Up the mountain of perpetual regress

And stroll in the rainbowed 'midst'                                

Of the infinite trees of brief

Up the lightly leaved path

Welled in the soft shading of Now,

Oh needful son.

_________________________________________________

I Love You Flannery O'Connor

I once was you and now wonder after that you

To think the downpour of God's reign is upon your tent,

And you're trying to explain the Christian alphabets

Quickly written on the crumpled napkin unwrapped off

Your scout buddy's spoon and fork to Teddy, this kid

From Portland, whose parents are screwed but then some

One has to yell bloody murder in the chicken coop

Just when you're emphasizing 'no movies or dances,'

And organ grinder laughter stifles in the drenched tents

A little snickering across the wet mudded ground,

But thank God, you haven't heard of Harris or Dawkins.

Daniel E. Wilcox
Published in The Centrifugal Eye
Spring 2007
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