reformation 2011

Harvey S. Mozolak

the church is always
ever-beginning again
in God’s hands
re-formed
molded anew
from the chaotic void
emptiness
of our formless news
never good
and the over-formed laws
we create by our fallen nature
there we are given and shed
from the wound in his side
at the rip of his heart
a bride purified by his love
at banquet with lifted loaf and cup

jello salad

Harvey S. Mozolak

one could hope

for unadulterated yellow
an unsullied tropic orange
with no shredded carrots
floating half alive
confused of flavor
but red cherry and the deeper dark the same
raspberry similar
but then there is lime green
alone not a favorite but passable
until a full can
of fruit cocktail is drained
of everything
its juice closer to a toasting mixture
than any of the chum
pale skin-shriveled grapes
which could be Halloween eyeballs
pears barely fruit
some surly pineapple bits
the peaches are the only soft chunks
that pass in suspended contamination
for what they are
in the jaded jell
while the cherries for a kid
suggest some hope
with their color
and infrequency
halved quartered sectioned
but even several on a spoon
extracted do nothing
for the dish or tongue
“next time crushed pretzels dear
“you will enjoy them”

send me to my room

with no bed of lettuce

tired track

Harvey S. Mozolak

down the highway

concrete paved hot
torn from a truck
a rubber carrion curl
shaped like a crow
with ascendant wings
above some flattened road kill
passing it rocks
but moves not away
a courageous raven
corvus-corded by its many miles
clawed across the country

greeting the book

Harvey S. Mozolak

the ritual is to kiss
a lectionary book
as in the more familiar communion pax
for it is the very Word of God
that after all before all
the everlasting
created everything everywhere
from galactic masses and holes
to hares that disappear beneath
and locusts that swarm above

like the baptizing John

fed into his mouth
and crunched and chewed
like sin
swatted repented destroyed
with a swallow of honey-sweetened
spring water feeding the Jordan
 
that read
the gold-edged pages bound in blessing
lifted to close with devout drama
and kiss
as my lips moved to embrace
with love its law and grace
marked mercy with ribbons
clasped by thick red leather
there flattened dead and stuck
where beneath the volume’s weight
of glory it died
ingloriously somehow this past week
a somewhat pressed grasshopper

this made my act of devotion
jump
in living shock and surprise
thus eating words
in prophetic Ezekiel-fashion
scrolled a napkin before the meal

amidst the drape of green

Harvey S. Mozolak

daubed by the brush

of a stiffened wind
here and there
a blush of rouge
at the leaving of warmth
leaves licked
like the cheeks
of a porcelain puppet
dangling limp
sad clown at the ending
applause of the summer
hanging by threads
no longer under control
of its limbs
there the curtain of green
sways with uncertainty
as the hot stage light
dims and darkens
above doffed and discarded costumes
that can no longer beg
an encore
for a mounding final bow

wood preserver

Harvey S. Mozolak

flood
drowning in endless rain
sheltered by a leafless tree
because it will when the land gives way  
float

peculiar cousin

Harvey S. Mozolak

cousins

an often odd relationship
some quite unknown forgotten
and others as close as friends
a family larger than siblings
one young enough to be a son
another as old a mother
with children the age of her child
kin counterpart
 
different the years of John
wading in water
preaching of detached relationships
from the river bank
older than Jesus by a mere nine months
dissimilar their keels and courses
though their mothers’ cargos
once hailed an exchange
passing full holds in the deep sea of age
 
the priestly son’s sail of camels’ hide
going over the horizon
before the other’s mast
begins leaving port to claim a distant
once unreachable shore
 
odd sent from God
to cry prepare this annoying locust-like
wild cousin
wilderness chirping chant to change
hauling safe anchors aboard
 
yet greater strange the range of heaven
to Mary’s son
plain level cousin-dom
even brother with the weird and wild of us

first furnace heat

Harvey S. Mozolak

the furnace begins

with a yawn of an fan
buried in the house’s belly
then the fearful igniting
of a belch of gas
smells of ducts expanding
to breathe
against cold metallic taste
stored all summer
exhaling through its long throat
to thin metal nostrils
along the walls of every room
home resuscitated
against winter’s death