Unification News for January 1995



by Ken Morgan

First Printing 1994 Published and printed in the United States by: Imagine Ink 503 E. Schubert, Fredericksburg, Texas 78624 Ph: 210-997-2970 Fax: 210-997-0538 All rights reserved.

Looking On

The fog he saw lifting was violet-
having wisps brushed with ocher and a breeze,
and soft light measuring furzy leaves
in a neighborhood of barks.
A song in the cadet
takes wings past radar images of varied trees;
past the rustling breath of waxed leaves,
past the coiling light of fragrant vines!
Delightful comparisons of detailed soils:
burrowed veining and chance encounters,
poise on a roll of images in his left shirt pocket.
And who choreographed this enchanted set-
when after years of consummate toil,
the best from this side compares to:
which flower?
which grain of sand?
which billowy wave?
Returning home,
who ever thought;
by the stairway,
indigo and yellow dappled,
irises could look so lovely, gently swaying?
Who ever dreamed;
the undulating wedge of geese below clouds
softly illuminated by village lights,
could melt the criminal's heart?
Waves and cycles roll,
births and periods return,
epochal revolutions smolder for decades,
and when sparked by a fateful pass
convulse the world overnight-
but it doesn't just happen!
So you see, there's very little
that's not been blithely glossed over-
leaving the object itself untouched!
But despite the spleen of cronies, court-ladies and regents;
already the "rays" streaming from His hand
have roused the fateful seed;
already the prophets are rising from their sleep!
And if the same resident forces;
which caused the codification
of early laws and ethical systems,
now impel neighbors to commune-
what event at home or abroad could be more compelling?
more ridiculed?

West Wind

A car growls up
spitting gravel in the flood light.
Time passes and dotted lines indicate the path of the door
squeaking shut-
and boot heels click across the lino
on a routine line.
Saguaros, trains and snarling badmen;
affect these walls-
Familiar tongues and common tones
hum through the kitchen door,
and timeless streams through the fabric of life!
Toward the back, the characteristic step
and a second's glance says it all:
either he's someone you know,
or the over moulded skull of an ancestor!
The chair slides back and the chair slides forth,

and it's dark in this town,
(a town that sprouted on the cotton market),
until the first lame filaments
faintly sparkle in the curtains.
"Della, can I get some syrup with these?"
and he sticks the gingham cloth into his collar.
beneath the monogram of her red-checked apron,
beyond the crypt,
as far as the manger;
surges Della's heart!
Syrup buoyed on a rattling platter,
she bends and reaches-
"thanks dear",
and he pours the golden viscid on his stack.
Somewhere the hum of deeper currents runs swiftly,
and somewhere she dreams of slowly melting-
walking with an added lilt
toward the order-window bell!


Between bells,
curious hearts and minds
mingle along highly charged halls,
in the student union, in cool bowers....
What could be more contrived
yet more ingenuous than this,
more pivotal than these?
The potter, the clay;
which niche to stalk,
whose agenda untie,
which herd to ride off with?
In the entry,
a great composite stone studded with crystals
seems to brighten;
as the debate over absolute values heats up!
Now we step into the atrium
reminiscent of a drift net drawn from an exotic sea:
these fresh creatures out of their element,
shimmering in the web!
These insights of every discipline coming into play!
These heroes of each context,
who could as easily been standup comedians
crying out for attention,
or mobsters busting in the door!
These perilously young, these dangerously rich,
their smooth skinned elan,
their games,
their theater! Little do they know how few moment are theirs to find the thread! How could they know that behind the playful screen of common myths, so many lurid figures crouch? How long until some salivating impaler jumps into their lap?

Cold Hard Look

Always in the summer as in the winter,
eyes that run their course
rely on rhythms
for protection from the unknown.
Spheres of drum beats
drift in and out through the reeds-
fading toward darkness;
still the blades of night
reflect as far as the eyes of beasts!
It's no quaint Pastoral hung in the parlor,
warmed by hymns;
but those earthen pots
that don't lie shattered by the din of midnight
may now lift their tousled worlds,
slowly up from gutted bunkers-
and blink in disbelief at what they're seeing!
Scenes lurch from stinking shadows,
where living proofs
of the parable of the unforgiving servant
walk around in a toxic cloud!
Yet somehow the original mind
still reads the waves of covert moves
and the repulsive hiss of falling bodies-
it keeps working!
And yet,
drained by indulgence;
we lack the energy to store even one
history shaping concept which might unchain us!
We lack the heart to debunk the cycles of alienation;
and so must relive them!
In the background meanwhile,
unnoticed as a ticking clock;
patient as a school mom,
taps the chalk board-
gradually raising her voice.
And if you care to know,
they're still looking for the remains of the last ones;
who failed to take a cold hard look!

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