when all else fails we order pizza: new poetry

Preface:

No preface is actually needed, but if it were I might say something like this:

This new work is born out of the times we live in, the true grief and resentment I am grappling with, and all of what has brought us forward, as a culture and a species, over the last fifty years or so to this time and place … a time of prophetic awareness and a place of imminent fulfilment.

Thanks:

To Brandon Ashworth an Independent, wrestler working under the ring name “Pretty Boy” Brandon Idle. I do certainly appreciate the use of his likeness for cover art.

To Lyn Lifshin who, whether she knows it or not, has influenced this work with her “stream of consciousness” poetic style. Now is the time, Lyn. Picking it back up after 25 years is huge.

—Sean Lawrence March 2022

When all else fails

Index:

Pg 2 ……………………… Preface

Pg 3 …………………….. Thanks

Pg 4 …………………….. Index

Pg 5 …………………….. Index

Pg 6 …………………….. So why is it

Pg 7 …………………….. Lives are

Pg 9 …………………….. How are you coping

Pg 10 …………………… Speaking of souls

Pg 11 …………………… Obedience is a virtue

Pg 12 …………………… Winter is necessary

Pg 13 …………………… Deciding to quit

Pg 14 …………………… An existential threat

Pg 15 Weed was a statement

Pg 16 …………………… Bob is the Cat for President

Pg 17 …………………… It has to do with peace

Pg 18 …………………… Church is a sanctuary

Pg 19 …………………… It has to do with gardening

Pg 20 …………………… It has to do with God

Pg 21 …………………… It has to do with standing your ground

Pg 22 …………………… Wrestling is for real they say

Pg 23 …………………… Happening upon a documentary

Pg 24 …………………… The one thing, Esther

Pg 25 …………………… I have been down

Pg 26 …………………… When all else fails

We order pizza Index:

Pg 27 …………………… If today is

Pg 28 …………………… Looking up is

Pg 29 …………………… What about the bathwater

Pg 30 …………………… I think my cat

Pg 31 …………………… So what exactly

Pg 32 …………………… I am still

Pg 33 …………………… The tattoo on my left arm

Pg 34 While there is a reason

Pg 35 …………………… Campfires are not

Pg 36 …………………… Where and what

Pg 37 …………………… In the photo of

Pg 38 …………………… Ahh, the wheat fields

Pg 39 …………………… The smell of summer

Pg 40 …………………… I think I have come to terms

Pg 41 …………………… The sound the corn makes

Pg 42 …………………… Lord help me

Pg 43 …………………… Ray told me

Pg 44 …………………… As he hung

Pg 45 …………………… I used to find them

Pg 46 …………………… When things start

Pg 47 Sometimes

Pg 48 …………………… I have always considered

Pg 49 …………………… Isaiah 2:4

Pg 50 …………………… Back cover & author’s info

So why is it

That when all else fails

We order pizza

As though that will Actually Fix the hole

In the soul, and that Adding pineapple

As though pineapple is the crowning fruit

One that might comfort the soul

The inner starving child ...

A child who is more

In need of a mother’s love

Than sugar-coated entrees ...

Knowing deep down

That the labor of preparing

And cooking

Is far more therapeutic

And is undoubtedly healthier than Ordering out ...

And that

Eating like livestock, and not family Only elevates our type 2

And gives our hearts something

Else to be hardened

About …

Aware that knowing and doing are light years

Apart. Right?

Lives are

Meant to be saved

Not piled up like cordwood For the furnace Of harvesting angels ... Lives are meant To be more than Simply valued If they have received God’s Breath at all ...

Plant or animal, cactus or bat

Yes, it matters

That any life is not regarded as Less than Because of species

Hue, origin or predisposition

Though we might

Expect a tad more insight from the self-aware

The believer

One informed in Spirit

Imbued with a dim reflection

Of God’s own image

Because if one can Harm another

Showing complete disregard

Then that individual Can never be Trusted.

When all else fails

How are you coping

The poet asked Himself in an ode to his Brother ...

And I say, “I am coping

Best I know how”

Which means long periods of normal (?)

Punctuated

By alternate periods

Of grief

And anger

But this isn’t about my brother, really Yet it may be in the broadest sense Because

A loss is a loss

Even if it is welcomed Even if

It is keeping a healthy distance

And not always Being in Pursuit Because

It is harder to watch someone

Decompose

At a distance

Even when it’s safer that Way.

Speaking of souls

And we should More than we do; Souls are pivotal Not insignificant

Souls are central To everything else That matters

Souls are a collective that Have individual identity That is not diminished By the whole …

Oh, btw

Cats are the guardians of souls Because they sense And attach To the God

With Whom they do not negotiate Because they (cats) Take their assignments As seriously And as silently

As their paws at night ...

Deliberate

Warding off shadows by becoming them

Protecting souls

Moving between worlds Like quantum mechanics.

When all else fails

Is hard to swallow even once

Let alone doing it

Over and over for a period of Let’s say

15 or 20 years, then

It’s only comparable

To drowning

On command by breathing deep, Fading to black,

And then being revived, coughing up

The phlegm of futility

Salty buckets

Of rejection

Hard enough to make

Old lungs bleed

And the leather of a diaphragm ache

And then doing it

Over and over until drowning

And being resuscitated

Is not only an option, but the stuff of life itself

Because drowning

Is all you remember:

So, one day you finally choose to stop drowning

But swimming ashore is the now the anger, and the distance

And the grief remains embossed

On your soul

Struck way down there

On the bottom like a fossil.

Obedience is a virtue

Though I am not so virtuous

Nor devout

But I know obedience when I see it

Not from the codependent

Or the submissive

But from the backyard garden

Where

Neither the cats

Nor the dog named Prince

Nor the birds, bees, squirrels or butterflies

Nor the roses or thyme

Negotiate with God

To be some thing

Or some one else

Because ...

They are secure in Whose they are

And see no gain in being other than What and whom they were

Designed to be

Unlike most of us

Who would sell a soul

Or take a life

To look feel or be

More than Or less than What we have become.

When all else fails

Winter is necessary For spring

Even though I sometimes agree

That summer

Cannot come soon enough ...

Knowing that a dark night Of any soul

May accompany a darker season Or seasons

Because we synch up and phase out

Darkness begetting darkness

And it is the worst of times;

But punching thru it means

Maybe the worst has come and gone

Or has simply passed over …

So there is solace in blissful ignorance

But no easy chair, no La-Z-Boy

In knowing

Believing truly

That things could not be worse

Having come all this way

To understand

That we have not yet arrived

We have barely begun, maybe Not even departed

From the gates of this hell

Belie4ving that glory is not really that Far off

Maybe just over the next hill.

Deciding to quit

Another addiction

To check off one more item

On a laundry list

Of obsessive Compulsive Behaviors

That need to go Because [it]

Will bring me closer To dealing with that one thing

That I have successfully avoided That must finally Be addressed If I am ever

To know peace:

Late to bed

Late to rise

Only means that my dreams

Are more than weird ...

Because the light from the morning sun

Pierces my subconscious

Brain like a pitchfork

And all of the unresolved issues

Leak out like battery acid, corroding my sleep

Startling me awake one final time

Disturbed for hours

Needing coffee and even more time to unwind.

When all else fails

An existential threat

Is no joke

Or even an exaggeration because It’s deep in the reptilian Brain where God nested it and Our struggles are real

In these ending times when The threat is as Real

As the day is long, And the day Is long

But the time is short, Until the Father calls us all to fold The hands we hold

Because the end is always nearer And we are closer to a place

Where the sun is not required

Because the streets

Are pure gold

And God is the Light And the Life

In a good place where we do not Have to decide between Fight or Flight.

We order pizza

Weed was a statement

But today it’s empty

Full of contempt and entitlement

Devoid of any residual political or cultural Import;

It’s as dead as the peace

Movement

Dead as truth and free speech

Even though the cultivated cannabinoids are Thru the roof we are still in pain ...

There was a time when

Smoking the stuff

Was meant to be hidden

Not brandished with the unmistakable stink of A blunt lit and lofted

Like a personal contrail

Draped across the Evening breeze

Making a down wind contact buzz

Seem inevitable.

Even the dispensary in the next town

Uses beepers to alert clientele

For order pickup (everyone is an Uber) ...

Back in the day we used Visine to keep The red out

Patchouli oil and Gonesh incense to fool

The ,man.

Bob is the Cat for President

Or at least he should be

Since Al Stewart has already proclaimed The Year of the Cat

And there really is a Street Cat Named Bob

Even a yard sign in Toledo, Ohio

Telling anyone who looked to the left of center

Past the visual trash In 2019

That Voting for Bob the Cat

Was more than a reasonable choice

All things considered

But Bob was mocked

It was even said that Bob was only my mouthpiece

Which is so demeaning

Especially to

A cat named Bob

An exquisite life form

That does not, has not

Forgotten its Noble

Pyramid-shaped roots

Roots

Deeper than our own

Which is why I allow them

To guard my Soul

And sleep on my lap

When I cannot find my rest.

It has to do with Peace

Or at least it should.

Peace is both the connection to And the evidence of Our God Peace is time spent with a cat

Not the Carl Sandburg

Cat but a tiny place of retracted claw Sanctuary

On a rainy day

A gray cat on a gray day

Which is absolute perfection

Make such a time your Sabbath and God will honor it

Because you honor something other Than you

Which is why He made soft things, furry Creatures

To distract us from us

To stop us in our tracks

To make us think For change

For a righteous change

Honor Peace, honor God’s purpose

Honor solitude And rest From Chaos

And Hate and moving, always moving.

When all else fails

Church is a sanctuary

Or at least it was supposed to be; I remembered it that way in 1969

When it was a retreat

And a happening place

No pun intended

No political rhetoric or xenophobic

Rants from the pulpit

[Maybe a little less hell and damnation as incentive] but

No side conversations

About firearms during Sunday School

So, I tried so hard to offer up

In less divisive

Language

Jesus’ own words

The truth of love and light, But in the end

Even those few that remained after The pandemic

Decided that free thinking and A toxic mix of politics and religion

Was an acceptable

Antidote

To the snake bite of stability

Democracy

And those other stumbling blocks

To real freedom.

It has to do with Gardening

It really does

Because it’s the only location On the planet

Which is the planet

Which is a cosmic terrarium

Pre-curser to the reboot

Where obedience is paramount

But never blind;

Blindness would be savage without

Darkness overcome

And by spiritual compound vision ...

Eyes of the jumping spider, bee or gnat

Which is exactly why

I want to get back to the garden

Yes that garden

Eden

Stick my hands into her

Up to my elbows

Absorb the chemistry and the earthiness

Touch God

With sticks and stones

Planting seeds

Being faithful to the harvest

Of good fruit and believer

Knowing

Fertility is both work

And gift.

It has to do with God

And it always will.

I say that

As a believer (yes, a Jesus Freak)

Without reservation, bias or judgment

Because even though God is sovereign

Which is His element, His rightful place

He has been swallowed up

In our culture

By the science

He created;

Remember that a vacuum

Created for even a good reason

Leaves an empty space, empty-ness

A void

Screaming to be filled

And it will always be filled by something or someone

So if you are bent in a way

To pray

Pray fervently and with purpose

Begging God

Not to take a “wait and see” just yet, but that He takes us by the scruff of the neck

And carries us to a place Of reckoning

Before we all lose sight Of the only Truth

That is true.

It has to do with standing your ground

Or at least it should

So do not listen to those fools

Who tell you

That there is glory and a crown

This side of glory

Under any crown.

Ignore those other fools clad in flags and horns

Who worship men

And the ground they walk on

Unholy ground

Sacred places they have made profane ...

White houses

Whitewashed tombs

Unclean as the outside of cups

And the inside

Of hearts & tombs

Where the bones of fathers

Lie

Yes, sometimes they lie

Hands folded

Declarations penned But Jesus Omitted. Those lies.

When all else fails

Wrestling is for real they say

I say YES!

And others say NO! it’s fake

Scripted entirely

So I suggest that you either

Attend as a fan

Paying a measly $10

For a night of cheap thrills

Or take photos ringside

Risking personal injury

Life and Limb

Because there is that faction which proclaims

“

Wrestling is real

And everything else is fake.”

No need to quibble when

Big men and strong women hit the deck or

Flying folks true to the gimmick

Dive bomb

Receiving the marks of suplex and road rash

Ropes and mats bruises and blood rising on naked flesh

Stgmata …

Some matches are predictable

Others are shoot

All bets off

Dangerous to be in and to watch

Like wild animals

Tame enough

Not tame enough.

Once upon a documentary About Walt Whitman

Broadcast over Public Television

I felt as though Just maybe

I was folding back into myself At this ripening, this age, At the end of a good run Of faithfulness and good works

In a downtown uptown somewhere

In southwest Ohio,

Remembering clearly the inspiration of My first poem

The inspiration of Stanley Plumly

My father’s student in the 50’s

Feeling oddly energized After so many fallow and Spent years

I thought maybe this new age In old age

Was not an age at all

But a new beginning after Divine calling Preparing me to look

Upward first and foremost

Then inward and outward

To be truly and finally inspired, Unshackled, Honest.

When all else fails

The one thing, Esther

I could not conquer

As I write this draft

Is an unmentionable thing

But a stain upon my life, a thorn

Which even God chose to leave inflamed, embedded In His grace

In my tragic doomed flesh

In the late evenings

Alone

When the mind and body

Wander and relive my “what if” past

In all of its catalogued clarity:

The taste

The smell

The touch

The sight

The tall weeds

The wheat fields behind

The old neighborhood

The lies

Before the drugs

When those drugs already existed

As predisposition

As I was both attracted and repelled

By the self-same flesh

And the secret nature

Of my longing.

I have been down

This road before

Though now

I am still on the same dirt path

With no mile markers

No real beginning

And no horizon

Fuel seems fine

Map is smeared though, illegible

Open to serious interpretation

No obvious direction home

But this time

Being adrift

Is becoming far more tolerable

Actually acceptable

I may not want to go home

Or wherever home is or was

And I am not really yearning

For what is ahead, not really (am I there yet?)

I wish I could say I was troubled

Enough to try harder

To read more Scripture

Pray more

But like I said

I am adrift

No beacon

No matter

No hurry.

When all else fails

When all else fails

We really do order pizza

Because it is the

Ultimate comfort food. the final solution

And the list of ordinary situations it addresses Is endless

For the moment, at least:

Imminent nuclear threat

Peace in the provinces

Ridiculous gas prices

A great coffee find at TJ Maxx

No bills in the mail

Lotsa bills in the mail

An argument with the spouse

Making peace with your partner

A bad day at the office

A good day at the office

You waxed your car

You have another flat

Pineapple sounds good with black olives

Red onions do not

The cat ran away

The cat came back

God loves you

The Devil won’t shut up …

When all else fails

We order pizza

No reason required. (sound familiar?)

If today is

Tomorrow’s yesterday

Then what is time

But a construct

Of God’s

For the benefit

Of our dismal linear Reality …

I know for a fact

That time is layered and Multi-dimensional

Which explains miracles, Quantum, physics

Heaven and hell

And how the Kingdom Can be within us

And all around us.

If today

Is yesterday’s tomorrow

And today is tomorrow’s

Yesterday

Then we can

Be sure

That today is really all we have

Since it is neither future nor past

And it is then true that the best time is simply Unequivocally

Now.

When all else fails

Looking up is

To keep looking up

And it Is harder than it

Sounds

Not because “up”

May not be there

When I get back

Or be otherwise

Misplaced or indisposed

But simply Because In my drift

My neck gets stiff

And I become “them”

One of those

Stiff-necked people

We hear so much about

The ones God was most

Frustrated with

Because they had no malady

Other than

Apathy, cynicism

And lack of gratitude:

So, I will go out

And snap photos of clouds

Forcing myself to do something today

If only to look up … if only.

What about the bathwater

The baby

The dirt

The human essence

And

All of the other critical stuff

Thrown out

In it?

So, I will get to the point

All too often our baby Jesus

Is cast out

With the bathwater

Of religion

Legalism

Politics

And entertainment …

Strange how we accept

What is removed

Thrown away

Cast off

Otherwise

Considered garbage

Yet, nevertheless

Without any question

We continue to drain

Cubic acres of bathwater

And gulp down camels.

Whole. (hair, hump and snout)

When all else fails

I think my cat

Swallowed

A rusty hinge. Every meow is like

An old screen

Door

Being opened somewhere

That WD40 Has not been used

In a hundred Years

And the wind has

Blown through the slats

The way

Unrequited love

Makes its way through

All things, all hearts and souls

Leaving them worse for The wear

Entropic

But, unlike the coming darkness And decay

My cat purrs, reassures And warms the side of My face, even my heart

The way most people cannot Ever Hope To.

So what exactly Is a racist?

I really don’t know

I cannot relate

Not because I am white or Without prejudice Or memory

Or self-awareness (not blame, though)

But because I do remember

That it was music

That made us whole and full of joy

It wasn’t colored music

Or white music

But just damned good music

That won over a whole Generation

And we almost got it Right

Then in the 80’s we got really high

We fell away sought mammon & fell down

And now apart ...

So, we want to repair

What is not broken

But simply

Unused and in need of a good dusting-off

Waiting for us ALL to sing along

Sing loud with voices, strings, drums and horns

The kaleidoscope of color we call music

Is us in the mirror waiting, getting old.

When all else fails

I am still On my trek

Dragging my weary Feet

Through the dust

Of my own wilderness

Wiping it off

But it clings

Like a magnetic charge

A bolt of static

A soulless mess

Attached like cat hair

To a black pair of pants

There is no Village

To curse No household

To return the peace to

No way to brush the dust off In holy

Frustration

Only to stomp

Around like a Violent Reject

In mourning;

Dust is a discarded notion

Rarely fruitful

Never forgotten.

The tattoo on my left arm

Ended up

Being more than a Bible verse

And even with The inadvertent capitalization Of a non-divine pronoun

I began to realize

That what I had really needed

Was a final reminder

A repentance Accountability

The very words of Jesus

Written on my skin

As on a scroll

A codex

A gospel

The Good News that maybe

After so many Years I can

Do what I had never done

Be what I could never be

Stop what could never be stopped

Find some semblance Of peace

After a lifetime Of falling prey

To the obsession

Which consumed me ...

Branded.

When all else fails

While there is a reason

For everything

Not everything is concocted by God

Tp place us in a “life’s lesson”

Predicament

That absolves us of Personal responsibility

And places

That blame

Squarely at God’s Feet

At His throne

Like a dead goat

No, sometimes

Even often

What we get is what

We have taken

Or proverbially what we harvest

Is what we have

Sown in secret.

And yes, absolutely

There is a reason

But not the one

We might wish we could

Attribute to God

Because

He is watching and shrugging like Atlas.

Campfires are not

Only for Campfire Girls

Church retreat bonding

Pep rallies

Or hobos

But for the darkness

The solace

The closeness

The time alone

With one preexisting element

Fire

Air (pneuma)

Not Water

Not Earth

Closer to Spirit

One that warms the bones

And can consume the flesh

Equally

Completely

And without premeditation, guilt

Or malice

But simply in its being

And primordial intent

Doing what it was designed

To do

So so long ago

Before Hawking

But just after the Big Bang.

When all else fails

Where and what Is home?

The one we are told You and I can Never Return to; In our faith Home Is glory, Home Is a destination And not a place We return to ... Home Is a chamber In the heart Warmer, brighter More inviting, A bygone time, Though no less Real Than the last meal We enjoyed, that cannot be eaten again; Home can never be Lived in again, never a residence Because home is like The memo we typed or The photo we took It is finished, over and done.

In the photo of A blazing, truly audacious, bright red Roadrunner Hemi 442

I saw a lost version Of me: blonde, skinny and tan Which

Caught me by surprise

Because it took me back 60 years

More or less

The dad is bent over Oblivious

Peering in the window

At the dash, at the wheel

At all of the exquisite Analogue Instrumentation

And the Hurst shifter Of course

Because that is truly a guy Thing

And this little version Of Me, doppelganger me

Is watching his dad

Being a kid

Again

And wonders what It will

Be like to grow up

And be a dad like his dad..

When all else fails

Ahhh, the wheat fields

In late June

Spread out over Southwest Ohio

Are like syrup on pancakes

Or butter on toast

The color of serenity

Solace and hard work

A hand to the plow

A blatant

But comforting homage

To Van Gogh

Who also honored

Murders of crows and angry skies

Not to condone

But to warn

That peace comes at a price

And even crows

Are murderers

If given the opportunity

The right time

And the right place

The wheat fields were hiding places

Far more valuable

Than the gold they

Imitated, the acres covered

Or the crimes they

Kept hidden, kept secret.

The smell of summer

Is the smell of rain

On hot pavement

Whatever that is …

But whatever it is

It consists of cool rain

Falling 25 thousand feet

Hitting, slapping the Hot steaming tarmac

Like a good spanking

Mixed with ozone, I think Or most likely the process of Immediate evaporation

Mixed with midsummer green

Tomato and squash that need

Ripening, protecting Sliced and offered up

At picnics like a sweaty food channel worship in High Ohio heat and humidity

Anticipating the salvation

Found in lightning, thunder and surprise

The voice and power of God

That is miraculously accomplished

By merging old roads, tar, purring cicadas

Freedom and childhood

For which

There is

No substitute even

After all of these desperate tech years.

I think I have come to terms

With that skinny kid

In cargo shorts, brown skin

And a platinum pineapple

Haircut …

Yeah, that was me

With a butterfly net

With pockets full of fossils

And allergies

With parents who believed

That I was not all

That weird

Ok maybe just a little

And that was our secret;

I came to terms

With the kid who spent too much

Time alone

With bugs and rocks

And the skeletons

Of roadkill, but

These days

I have a lot of respect

For the little guy

Who didn’t give up

Who could be alone

And not learn

To hate himself as much

As he wanted to.

We order pizza

The sound the corn makes

Has a voice

All its own

It rustles and scrapes

When it speaks

Like a door

Opening

To another time and place

Where farms still Matter

Where victory gardens

Memorialize an actual enemy

Vanquished

And not the cheap heady stuff

We drink these Days

The hollow stuff

The shallow

Politically spun stuff

Nothing ever as simple

Or as self-determined

As putting a hand

To the Plow

Or seeds to

The furrow

Where dirty working hands

Washed one another

Clean.

Lord help me

Find my way

Back

Across open Fields

To the main Road

Back to a place

I swear

I have never Been

To a place where The moon looks like

A pearl

And the sky a polished gray shell, and

The sun is

Casting steel blue

Shadows

Lord help me

To find that place with You With her

Help me to find my way

Back

Across the fields of Dreams and detours

People, places and things

I have survived, but not bested.

Ray told me

That I could

Fatten up my squirrels

With raisins

That they would be

Particularly sweet

Fat

And tasty …

But, truth be known

It would take

At least 3

To make a decent Sandwich

And that would really not make a dent in

The local population …

So to be honest

I would save a few more

Tomatoes & squash, and

Not have as many

Furry four-legged birds

At the feeder

So, as lip-smacking as it sounds

It would just not

Be right right?

And hey, it may save me

A couple slices of bread

For roasted turkey or glazed ham..

As he hung On the porch railing At the market I felt Disgust I think With him and With me: He did not want Our food And I was absolutely not Interested In giving him my Money So, he went on To the next table And the next Table Still peering through The black wrought iron Bars separating us ... Tho we are not truly Separated From the knowledge That we Are Our brother’s keeper.

When all else fails

I used to find them

On windshields and radiators

Stuck by the impact

And fried

To a crisp

Wings often embossed

By the fins

Sometimes discolored

By the heat

And rush, the intake

Of wind

But nevertheless

Suitable for

Framing

Pinned lifeless

And spread eagle

So to speak

On clean

White board

Names on tiny slips

Of paper

Calling out

Butterfly Beetle

Hornet

Moth

common names, genus and species

Still dead as doornails

Killed by progress.

When the man

In the black coat

Turned

What did he Turn to Or turn from?

Robert Bly will know

But he died

A couple of years ago

So I read the poem

Snowbanks North of the House

In full

And it seems that He pivoted in the dust

And did not

Climb the hill

Which seems so much

More than prophecy

But less than A certainty

The man in the black coat

Lost his will

Lost his child and wife

And chose not

To return to the darkness

But to go back down

Through the other valley of darkness

To seek pure light, to heal

In the meadow by moving waters.

Sometimes

We attempt to read So much into Poems and literature

In general

That words no longer resonate ...

For their beauty alone

For the concrete arrangement Of images like flagstones

Winding over and through

The page, or Stories like gangplanks

That we willingly step off of Into a deeper place; Or

There is no story at all

Nothing that Makes us feel like a question Has been answered Or asked

We have become so politically sensitive

That our politic is like a dull Pair of scissors

Scissors that can no longer Hack the appropriate words

Out of old yellowed magazines

To paste up a threatening note

To our children’s children:

Write so your children can read, understand And imagine or go extinct!.

When all else fails

I have always considered

Myself

If not a devout pacifist

Not a warrior, either

But the bombing

Of a children’s Hospital

In Ukraine

Broke my heart

In ways

That surprised even

Me …

I realize that

The Major Prophet

Isaiah

Proclaimed that we

Will see God judge the nations, and

That in response

[They] shall beat their swords into Ploughshares

And spears into pruning

Hooks

But my heart screams

Louder than the mortar fire, “Before that time comes

Take your last unbeaten swords

And defend innocent Blood!”

[Isaiah 2:4] He shall judge between the nations, and shall decide disputes for many peoples; and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.

The author lives in Ohio with his wife Rebecca and their 4 cats.

Other works of Sean’s can also be found on the ISSUU website; they include, …

In the Beginning: a study on the Gospel of John

Diet of a Madman: a collection of poetry

Thomas: The Gospel of Thomas researched

The Voice God Gave Me: Meditations for a Year

and … Various photo collections

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