jottings: the awful fate of aweful (for good friday)

i fear we have confused the A​weful with the awful,
and now we hate what we ought to love.
if to ‘know’ a thing is to master it,
then the Aweful eludes
     such attempts.
the Aweful sits forever
     at the hazy horizon of our understanding.
we hate it because it sits beyond our reach.
we declare the Aweful dead to us,
     because it refuses to submit  to our skeptical gaze.
in this way the Aweful became awful.
yet, the Aweful did deign to do so
We touched it and spoke to it.
We interacted as we would with any other.
Yet the Aweful did not submit to the tyranny of our desires,
     so we murdered it.
We had glimpsed beyond the arc of time and space,
but we were not able to meet what we saw.
     While it is still Today;
     when we may yet work at it;
     before the rage after the dying of the light comes;
let us not see the Aweful as awful.
Rather, let us be purged of the awful
so that we might stand in awe
     of what we are to behold.
The Aweful will once again hurtle back across the breach;
     will we then embrace it in hatred
or awe?

writing in my 30’s (a poem)

Some of my best friends are turning 30, and I’m going through a bit of a writer’s block, so… I share with you a poem I wrote last year.

Writing In My 30’s

The ink is still in the damn pen.
All that is caught in my mind
—true, searching, consuming things,
are but an empty page.

A boy’s well-laid plans lost,
dreams of rockets and guns and applause
by ugly pickets, cluttered garages, blank cubicles.

I had plans
—but it’s always like this.
The shape we want to make
eludes our attempts to write it.

© 2014 Regis Saxton

Cigar Shoppe Men (a poem)

I had the thought it would not be very much like a warrior poet to not share at least some poetry. I hope you enjoy.

Cigar Shoppe Men

Cigar smoke. Curled round crinkled
smiles. Us bastards here hide
all away from, and within.

Cramped quarters. Cajoling from stools
with our backslapping laughter.
It’s all smoke screen. There is more

To us men. Wrapped in cigars,
Of Pain leaves, and persistent pressure.

Tobacco tears our walls

away. His eyes sober and
we receive his sacred confessions.
We take thoughtful, respectful tokes.

The Negro Still Speaks of Rivers

our chains are gone, dusky hide unscarred and
jim has died with our old grey leaders.
we escaped cotton shares for ghetto squares
and our blood flows more from north than south, yet
the negro still speaks of rivers.

our enduring power is no longer love but black,
and so we hate. reckless abandon of a king’s dream
to hold hands and sing with those of another hue, yet
the negro still speaks of rivers.

story, culture, love and sermon prophesied
to a nation’s soul blacker than it desired, yet
did black power render us voiceless,
robbing the grey and the old rugged cross?

blood and water he still seeps and bleeds
desires its rolling down mountains purple.
it roars out atavism to a people listening, so yes,
the negro still speaks of rivers.

© Regis A. Saxton