"For Clemency"

(photo by: annonymous)

A baby in her mother’s womb:
implicit hope to live, she died;
what fostered growth, afforded doom—
“Umbilical,” the doctor sighed.
And though her mother gave delivery
her father named her Clemency.

These little creatures fall from hope
mishandled by the government;
I shouldn’t speak of them, I know,
but I was once this rudiment.
While those who’ve past, condemned this policy,
their inborn cry was clemency!

And so it is with politic,
the people vote their social goal;
assuming matters must affect
consensus of “the common whole”.
Amidst this ballet-botched democracy
we trample over clemency.

It wasn’t many years ago
God’s chosen people suffered loss;
and like a fire in the flow
all Europe swam in holocaust.
The public turned the state to tyranny—
a vice, forbidding clemency.

Exchanging humor, knowledge, truth
Humanity—we take and bless;
sojourning from our former youth
in philanthropic tenderness.
though plagued with sorrow and infirmity
we interact with clemency.

Considering this social must
reflects innate depravity;
that hearts embrace repentant trust
accepting God’s kind amnesty.
Confessing Christ, the Judge eternally,
our sin is quenched in clemency.

But not without the Judges grief;
for us, the Father gave his Son
who, crucified just like a thief—
dependently cried out for home;
“Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani.”
God gave himself for Clemency.

by Wm. Rieppe Moore

kick me in the ke

last night was lots of fun. Patrick and i played an absurd game of words and grammar. Patrick discovered a eupherism, "spakingly", which is the past-past perfect of "to speak", yet it is also an adverb and could possibly be used as a demonstrative, depending on the situation. i couldn't go to sleep last night, not because the floor was uncomfortable, but because Patrick and i continued to play the game, eventually arriving at the letter "s", which resulted in seriously sagacious humor and also minimizing the amount of sleep we'd get. so, naturally, i was pleasantly surprised to find the internet accidentally titled a track from one of my albums, "Kick Me In the Ke" (even though the correct title is "We Must Go"). i said to myself, "whoever is responsible for this unusual name, probably suffers from staying up late into the night playing the unwinable-word-game."

the below is an excerpt from an unusually entertaining evening

Patrick: "paddle"
Rieppe: "puddle"
Patrick: "piddle"
Rieppe: "prattle"
Patrick: "prate"
Rieppe: "pat"

the two players exchange glances, laughter ensues, and the game resumes

Patrick: "pitch"
Rieppe: "pit"
Patrick: "pick"
Rieppe: "prick"
Patrick: "prize"
Rieppe: "price"
Patrick: "predispose"
Rieppe: "presuppose"
Patrick: "pray"
Rieppe: "propose"
Patrick: "preach"
Rieppe: "pastor"
etc...

this sort of game-versation continued until the wee hours of the morning. although there was no winner: just fun...

"On Sullivan's Isle"

(photo by: annonymous)
There is an ocean pulsing on the shore
that beckons lovers swim;
and kiss upon an ancient beach
along the frothing rim.

Where heaven sounds its eventide to spill
from clouds quite ominous.
Yet here enthusiasm climbs
As dim befalls to dusk.

We huckleberried pants to dip our toes
and make amends. The sea
preserving in its claim of warmth;
held happy company.

And though we didn’t swim in deep;
we tested aptitude;
discovering innate restraint.
The ocean understood.

she gave me fritos

on the Monday of my final week at work, a volunteer who visits the office on a regular basis gave me a bag of Fritos. her name is Mary Anna, and for some reason she thinks i have some kind fetish for corn products. it might be a byproduct of her offering me the remainder of a bag of chips from lunch one day and i scarfed it down immediately. the thing is, there probably isn't much i wouldn't scarf down, save that which is trash (yet i think even food taken from the garbage is negotiable, depending on its degree of spoil).

so she gave me plain Fritos. not the fancy red torch barbeque, filet minot with hint of lime, nor the stawberry daiquiri; just plain old Fritos. salt, corn, and oil never tasted so good. then i got to thinking while i was pouring breakfast down my throat; what's really in this bag? what idea, what telling notion of myself? and as i continued to pour i continued to look at the back of the bag-- its metalic silver walls--not quite a counterpart likeness of myself, which is probably good because if i were to be looking for an insight and i caught a glimpse of myself, i would be startled and severely disappointed. it's just me, i would say, and self would diminish even further. so as i was accompanied by a bag of chips in all its corn, salt, and oil i realized, if only all things in life could reflect the same trifold simplicity. and that's what i wanted. simplicity. when she gave me Fritos and she gave me simplicity.

"The Weeping Willow Also Sings"

(photo by: Marjan Gresl)
Although the seasons change and alter you
—a vagary of flurries blowing through—
emerges from a union with the breeze,
to croon and sway along as other trees;
and as the winds may bow and make you spin
your merriment is swift upon the wind.
When zephyr with his throng, attends your leaves
you’re handled with concern amidst the eaves.
And when the remnants from the east retreat
they fetch the fellowship of harmony.

Accepting friends so freely to affect
observant solitude and deep respect;
your limbs outstretched resembling a dome,
are commonly left as an empty home.
So visitors are welcome anytime;
reposing in the shade as tresses chime.
O how I wish that I were underneath
the stipule leaves—exuding off their breath!
Then I might be the friend I wish you had
To visit you whenever you are sad.

But I’ll conceit—your suffering to know
by writing, lest unmoved before I go.
My neck should be as branches sloping down
in gratitude to landscapes spreading round.
My hair should wilt to cover up my face,
like flower stalks that blanket your estate.
My voice should be connected to my peers
just like the music you have made for years.
And when I leave, I’ll tell my friend these things.
I’ll say, I know song the willow sings.

from my moleskine: the next morning i forgot

i was disturbed from slumber last night by a fairy muse with a ball point head, a Bic-shaped body, and a shredded plastic pen cap that fanned wildly to act as manufactured fairy wings. she whispered something in my groggy ears and by the time that i had begun to grasp her droning words, she vanished into pixy air. despite the effervescent nature of our meeting, once i had slowly realized her disappearance, i longed to have deciphered her words.

the next morning i forgot almost everything. and as a friend and i traveled to a book club to watch a movie, i, a native of Columbia for over sixteen years, led us off-course. people lose themselves, others; and together steer hopelessly, needlessly, aimlessly. what are we doing? passed through my mind several times, while my rookie friend thought, what are we doing? the space of the Olds became filled with limpid question marks, moving like phantoms amidst nooks and crannies, under the dashboard, around head rests, and through the vents. They asked: what did they intend to do? can they hear us? why are they squandering petroleum? how late is too late to get somewhere? is my hair okay? when will they realize how lost they are? sometime after the questions marks had begun interogating i began to hear them, and i can't quite recall what was initially said, because all i remember is white noise. it is together that we know how lost we've become. we encounter the intensely inane nature of the situation, with a deafening aftertaste of boredom.

apart from that, we drove back to my friends car, where I dropped him off and apologized profusely, but it didn't change my embarassed state, nor does it improve what was experienced. nevertheless, he was kind and I was kind, and we met at a place called Consideration. we were able to remedy our disappointment in each other. looking inside myself and looking inside my friend simultaneously, disclosed the great expanse that remains between friends, yet is exposable. this expostulation is granted by God to turn us loose from self and others, and free in him. we discover our true fulfillment and restoration in the arms of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. discovering also the inane, unanswered questions haply situated somewhere in an eternal house with many rooms.

"Behind Her Hair"

She hides behind her hair;
Those locks of lavender.
And when she’s peeking through, I stare
To try and fathom her.

I think her tresses laugh,
Festooning as a guise;
And as I often cross her path
My wit must improvise.

Sometimes she comes around,
And lifts her head to me.
Beneath romantic black, she bounds
As active curls agree.

I meet attractive looks,
And find her honest gaze.
Though I’ve become a fool for hooks
I’m cautious anyways.

Her pendent hair adorns
The fairness in her cheeks
And when the wisps of wind blow round
She’s swept in swirling streaks.

I make an orison—
With unpretentious mood,
That God might find my petition
Is more than platitude.

Her lips vouchsafe a curl;
Her brow is underneath.
Now I have met a furtive girl,
Who takes away my breath.

Is It Tantamount?

this question is explicitly vague for a reason. i want to draw your attention to a critical issue in the emergent Christian generation. i pose this question to myself as well. "is it tantamount?" being that the gospel is conveyed by speach, and speach by words, and words from truth, and truth from God, it is befitting that the conveyance of the gospel is tantamount to our own confession. if someone is to relay the gospel in order that it proves tantamount, then one must pursue authenticity to that end.

there are several aspects of authenticity regarding the administration of the gospel in Scripture, yet none include pursuit of wealth, security, insurance, yuppiness, fashion, etc, and in some instances Jesus only allows his disciples to do so with not but a minimal wardrobe; no money nor knapsack; and they were only permitted to accessorize themeslves with a signular (Luke 10:1-12). these men, who work hard for a living to earn their honest pay as nothing but common fishermen, to be asked to do this is like asking asking a butterfly to hold your boxing gloves.

this same group of men (due to the inherent hunger which plagues everyman) couldn't stand the thought of forfeiting their already measly supper of five loaves of bread and two fish (can't you just see the nervous expression on their faces, when Jesus asks them what they've got--i mean it's already thirteen that "have to eat", but the mention of five thousand...) to five thousand people just a short time before (Luke 9:12-14). now Jesus asks for them to commit to travel the country with nothing prepared to eat on the voyage (Luke 10:4). this demonstrates a kind of change that occured. we aren't told where each of the disciple teams ventured, we are told what they took with them; not where but how. although there are many other aspects of authenticity regarding the administration of the gospel in Scripture, i like this one, because these men are depicted with only one desire, one passion, one purpose, executing the quintessential nature of the gospel in their sharing of it...

"Cemented State of Mind"

(photo by: Tatsuya Sato)

come sit by me
along the brook and listen to it drain
embankments made by man,
then we will see
arresting harbingers—commercial strain—
before we pray again.
that we might know
the horror of democracy and trade
as seen by indie youth;
we'll stay, although
i feel a revolution, long delayed
that needs to mend the truth.
for in the in
of money, wastefulness, and fuel
corruption fights
to hide the sin
of highways built to please the freedom-fool,
confounded by his rights.
now turn your thoughts
to Mungish Companies and you will find
empires—asinine;
we're casting lots
to Jump into cemented state of mind—
suburbal by design.
now think of this;
that our allegiance pledges to the flag—
red, white, and blue unfurled,—
so blow a kiss
to virgin forests, wildernesses, knags;
and cultivate the world.

Dear Nearly: Part 9 "Today"

i wanted to inform you of the slightly outrageous, starkly sobering situations into which i almost fell. for instance, after using the wash room this morning while at work, Nearly, i came close to returning to the office with my zipper down. also today, i almost resigned as Chistian Youth in Action Coordinator to the bleak pursuit of temp-job-hunting. shortly after a meeting with my boss, i almost began brushing my teeth in the office (my fetid mouth plead for a bath in tartar control). after making some calls, i went on an errand to Tarrar Springs Rd and almost got lost. Nearly, you could say i was agitated by this. the way i came to discover the desination of my errand also came about by a close call. as i searced for the elusory Tarrar Springs Rd, i made a wrong turn onto Monroe Lane and stumbled upon what looked to be a surreptitious, government combine. then i envisioned myself driving into the beginning of an X-Files episode. the building was flat-brown without any particular texture, and horizontal windows that were one-way mirrors. i initially thought i would be captured by aliens, but i soon discovered that the facility was only a Medical Services of America (MSA) office cul de sac where Nebulizer Medical and other pharmaceuticals scam America (the receptionist was nice though). when i finally arrived at Tarrar Springs Rd i crossed a bridge with an inscription reading: "the bridge you are cossing passes over the old highway 1, now known as Tarrar Springs that runs over the roadbed which early settlers used. take notice on either side of the spring, old Cedar, Juniper, Oak, and Sycamore trees that stand sentinel to the intrepid pioneers who came before us." having been blessed with a glimpse from the past, Nearly, it seems you weren't involved in my life today, just an innocuous afterthought...(photo by: Tatsuya Sato)

for all things life

recently, i've longed to re-develop a love for all things life. from the womb i attempted to foster this love and welcome it. the book says that no man can love both God and the world, yet it seems we must, lest we completely die inside and recognize nothing within: not because there will be nothing but because it will bear unfamiliar, alien characteristics--in appearance, a ghoulish, ominous pitch of darkness--pokable with a stick in idea only. yet no one nears it for fear of its precariously cataclysmic, infectious nature...but why do i attempt to love life? the Last Man is recorded in the book as having repeatedly stated that those who seek, cherish, love their lives will lose it, yet those who lose, denounce, abhor their lives, will attain it.

people look better in the faint reflection of grungy glass panes; that's what i am doing right now. it's late at my favorite coffee shop and the vintage windows dream this part of the building into a room of mirrors. this one guy is on the internet doing class homework and visiting with his mom via IM, another fellow behind me is studdying gastro physics, a lady to my left tries to reconcile the relationship with her lagubrious, ambivalent boyfriend. and i encounter memory. i remember when Alex, my geomotry partner in ninth grade, would draw philo-grams for me. he called them philo-grams because they would be in nature, diagrams with a philosophical bent. we didn't like to listen to our teacher. Mrs. Snukze would put us to sleep, and then she would put us in detention, which if that occured too many times, we would be put on suspension. none of this teaching us to actually listen in class. however, we did learn that Mrs. Snukze had an enervating, birdlike voice, like a boring angel calling us to sleep. we decided the solution to the problem would be to completely ignore her and doodle during class.

anyways, one time Alex started drawing one of his philo-grams with two parallel lines about two inches apart. he then drew a zig zag line in between them at about forty-five degrees from each point that it touched a parallel line. he circled each angle and stated, "imagine these parallel lines are mirrors and the middle line a LAZER beam, each one of these angles is a creation, despite their equality. it doesn't matter if they are cloned angles, they're isolatedly unique." for being one of the most unique individuals i've ever met, i would wonder why he struggled so with his fingerprint personality. that's when i thought of Alex, and i knew that i wasn't studdying people. i was contemplating creations.

then, i again grasped that sense--the memory--of all things life. somehow the world became beautiful again. i look at it and wonder at the mercy of God. i deny myself, i love life in it's regenerated newness, only because Christ loved me first, and i love him for showing me these irrelevant angles are nothing more than fleeting creations of a fleeting world--deserving not my love. there is another place. a place behind the eyes--for the time--peerlessly sustained by God's holiness...(photo by: Tatsuya Sato)

Dear Nearly: Part 8 "Kaput"

there's nothing that makes me feel so silly as almost sneezing in public. this is more or less a result of the unpredictable awkwardness, which comes with it. i always get the sense that i'm out of place; similar to the residual sensation that remains from having experienced deja vu. none of my friends know the proper sneezleless etiquette. neither do i. something essential should be said. though i've attmepted to think of creative German phrases (despite my understanding of German being paltry) that could compare to "God bless you" (not actually being a blessing per se), yet still assuaging that awkward moment after a faux-sneeze. considering the need for a colloquial onomatopoeia, yet convieniently consise, i decided upon "kaput". this seems harmless and silly enough to alleviate the suspended sneeze that congests a room of people recently agitated. a suspended sneeze is too much like a politic to remain unaccompanied by the condolences of surrounding individuals. society is too civil to further withold this practice of using "kaput" in such a manner. of course "kaput" isn't in honor of you, Nearly, but in spite of you; not to reinforce your thievery, but to excuse your tactlessness; not to condone your immaturity, but to relieve your complexion. i'm sorry about the judgmental nature of my letter, but you just might learn something about youself as a result of this. Nearly, it could be said "'kaput' is your nemesis"--a makeshift resolution to a cultural practice that's long-overdue...(photo by: Tatsuya Sato)