I place block upon block
like a child grasping those small wooden pieces,
squares with the alphabet painted in primary reds,
blue, yellow, and secondary green
with primitive drawings on two sides
matching the sound of each letter,
lowercase on another, upper case at the end.
With precision I secure one upon the next,
perfectly chosen, balanced.
I make a tower. I do my job.
I seek perfection. I want the prize.
I am empty building this monument,
yet I continue day and night, years into life.
The tower grows, topples. I begin
again. No matter. I will do what I am told,
lying if I must, pretense. I follow the rules.
I loathe the bricks.
In the last fall, I heard your voice.
Removing the blocks from my hands your
touch is gentle, not like the hewn lump
I wasted in perpetuity.
Deep within, I gasp. There is a spark
waiting to flame. You know it is there.
Holy oils anoint my skin, the rigid shell
softens. Harsh coarse words
fade with your embrace. Finally, I am.
There is a darkness to these current logions. I find myself visiting my past, glad knowing I am in a new place now.
My other poems in this series of my study of the Gospel of Thomas can be found at Theophany or here:
(1) His disciples questioned him, (and) they said to him:
” Do you want us to fast?
And how should we pray and give alms?
And what diet should we observe?”
(2) Jesus says: “Do not lie. (3) And do not do what you hate.
(4) For everything is disclosed in view of <the truth>.
(5) For there is nothing hidden that will not become revealed.
(6) And there is nothing covered that will remain undisclosed.”