+ 3RD POEMS: To Matthew And Francis, 2

He has so much so trivial to tell---

and its source is candidly obvious:

reactions tawdry, trite, and tedious.

To credibility he might aspire,

but all his efforts toward that soundly fail;

gone, with his endless repetition, stale.

He never has to fear his words are fraught

with the least semblance of a civil thought;

he thinks his rants successful to debunk

flaws he presumes to judge self-righteously.

Look down upon him from Heaven's vast skies;

and pity his inchoate verbal violence

(he does not cultivate virtues of silence).
On Christ's Day, when that man is firmly put

before the Great Throne (as in Revelation),

having rejected Christ and His Salvation,

and long abandon to lost reprobation,

he will be sentenced to eternal Hell,

and tossed, headlong, into seething Lake Fire

where he will splash down with a loud KERPLUNK.

Meanwhile, enjoy Christ's stellar Paradise;

frolic through those pastel landscapes barefoot.

 

Somewhere, in the warm South, two adolescent

boys---slender, agile; their hair "a bit too long

girlish" (so say some old folks)---have walked to the

grassy banks at the slow river's shallowest

level (ankle deep).

 

To avoid suspicions of haters, they brought

cane poles, with no plans to fish.  They are shirtless

and barefoot (shoes wear out quickly in summer;

and a Depression, raging, makes cash scarce as

local approval

 

of their desire for each other); the cuffs of their

baggy flannel trousers pool at their ankles,

so that only their toes are unconcealed as

they stand at "their" bend of the river, screened by

high overgrowth from 

hostile scrutiny as their hands have been clasped.

Now the urge comes to exchange ardent kisses---

the kind that are (so they have been taught) sinful---

and shy caresses over uncovered flesh

(oh, yes!) there and there.

Their language has abandoned words for soft sighs,

moans, and giggles---sometimes punctuated by

sudden gasps at surges of overwhelming

pleasures that are much more than the sunlight's slant

through trees' leafy limbs.

In the small town beyond, in their exclusive

enclosures, smuglies nestle snugly in

the narrowness of their attitudes, and the

stultifying sameness  that validates their

sort of existence.

Two (long-haired, shirtless, barefoot) adolescents---

beautiful in their love for each other that

this bucolic copse embraces, and over

which the stately grandeur of the sky rotates---

are not yet aware

that on the other side of this, their, world; in

an ancient city of which they have never

heard; in a land far older than they can now

comprehend---an old Poet (of the rarest

and most exquisite

appreciation of the very love that

they, even now, offer to each other;  and

whose vision of History's meaning exceeds

any collegiate scholar's understanding) has

entered death, leaving

 

behind, and to unknown others who are most

capable of appreciation, the small

volume of poems (yet to be collected) in

which he becomes his most authentic self, to

celebrate their love . . . .

 

J-Called

[*/+/^]

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The title refers to Matthew Shepard (1976-1998) and Francis LaPointe (1993-2013); young men brought to death through the cruelties of others.

 

Line 14:  Philippians 1:6

Line 15:  Revelation 20:11

Line 16:  1 Peter 2:6-8

Line 17:  Romans 1:28

Lines 18-19:  Revelation 20:14-15

Line 21:  LXX Sirach 43:9-10

Line 22:  Exodus 3:5 

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