Reprobation (Poem)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

Outside the slaughterhouse
the cows low out their one-note prayer
begging God to redeem this part of creation.

Miasmatic sky oppresses
trees of the field too weak
to clap their hands.

The sulfur and particulate
from smog and smoke
clog stomatic pores.

Shagbark hickories splay
a myriad of black fingers to the sky,
pleading for vindication.

Fish become flotsam
caracasses float to the surface
in what can’t be mistaken for ascension.

The roiling sea cries out,
“Would that God descend from His heaven
and say again, ‘Be still.'”

And we, the Pestilence,
lacking the mendicancy
of the breast-beating tax collector,

refuse to acknowledge this.
God’s creation? Just collateral damage.
Reprobation? We named it the Fall of Man.

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the looks on their faces when they find out

(by Daniel R. Jones)

Bet it was bliss being Jesus,

before the crucifixion, I mean.
Before Judas’ kiss and the crown of thorns
and the floggings and whatnot.
Before the Romans rolled bones for his clothes.

Bet it was bliss being Jesus,

rustling through the Torah,
strolling the streets of Nazareth
with that look on His face:
just knowing He was God.

Bet it was bliss being Jesus,

knowing he was God’s own
self-insert in the story He’s weaving.
Not a Mary-Sue, exactly, I
don’t want to stretch the analogy too far.

But I’ll bet it was bliss being Jesus

before He’d told anybody;
say, at 10-years-old,
just watching and waiting to tell His classmates,
giddy to see the look on their faces.

Before all the terms and conditions
of the Kingdom of God.
“A hard teaching,” they called it.
Therein lies the rub.

But before all that,
I bet it was bliss being Jesus.

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Book Officially Released! 10 Reasons You Should Buy It

IT’S HERE!

You can buy my poetry collection for less than 8 bucks on the publisher’s website! If you’d like to purchase it directly from the publisher, head this way: https://wipfandstock.com/the-wrenching-of-the-hip-that…

If you’d rather purchase from Amazon, feel free to follow this link.

10 Reasons you should buy my book:

1.) You love books of poems that have a mix of light verse, fixed form, free verse, prose poems, ruminations on the tedium of everyday life, and spirituality.

2.) You are worried about the decline of physical books as a medium.

3.) You promised you would buy a book if I ever got it published. No take-backs.

4.) You vaguely knew me in high school and you want to see if there are any oblique references to you.

5.) You’re actually my mom, or directly related to me. You’re basically obligated, in this instance.

6.) You recently read a think piece that guilted you into supporting small-time artists, especially during COVID-19.

7.) You’re concerned you will run into me in person and I will ask if you bought it and it’ll get awkward.

8.) You think you can get away with running into me once and saying “I’ve been meaning to!” But after reading #7, you realized you’re likely to run into me twice, and on the second run-in, it really could get weird.

9.) Literally, pity. You keep imagining me clicking “refresh” and venting to my wife about how I expected SOMEONE would buy it.

10.) You like to support your friends’ endeavors, and you appreciate that I’ve never messaged you to “catch up,” only to sling Young Living, Herbalife, Primerica, etc. at you.

(I recognize that if you sell any of the above MLM products, you probably no longer want to buy my book. That’s okay. You’re absolved.)

In other news…

I’ve decided to break down and start an “Author Page” on Facebook and Amazon. This will help me to better send out new information related to my writing without inundating people on my personal page who might be less than interested. It would mean a great deal to me if you “liked” and “followed” my Facebook Author Page and my Amazon Author Page today!

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The Wolves are Inadmissible who refuse to lie down with the lamb (poem)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

We’re a peculiar people; out of context,
and those are two separate clauses.
But a faction of the dead can’t long for heaven 
if the swords must be beaten to plowshares 
and spears to pruning hooks.

The Cherubim, fierce and fey with 
hot steel flickering side to side
stand guard at the gates of Paradise, saying:
“The wolves are inadmissible
who refuse to lie down with the Lamb.”

But the goats on the left
follow a star that doesn’t lead to Bethlehem.
“No matter,” they say. 
“It’s heaven enough to prove the atheists wrong.”
The goats proceed to damnation.

Meanwhile, Jesus took bread, saying
“Take, eat; this is my body.”
And his body, blessed and broken
was plenty sufficient for the multitude.
How is it that ye do not understand?

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Come Dirty (poem)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

“This is a holy moment,” dad said,
pouring my vodka down the kitchen sink.
“You need to know I’m proud.”

But my sixteen-year-old brain
toggled between godly sorrow
and utter shame.

In terms of salvation,
“come clean,” is a most
unfortunate misnomer.

We tend to come 
dirty, broken
and afraid.

80-proof Smirinoff
circling down
the drain

like some backwards 
Old Testament
drink offering.

A holy moment, indeed.

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Beyond the Balustrade (Poem)

[by Daniel R. Jones]

 (After John 8:2-11.)

NO FOREIGNER
IS TO GO BEYOND THE BALUSTRADE
AND THE PLAZA OF THE TEMPLE ZONE
WHOEVER IS CAUGHT DOING SO
WILL HAVE HIMSELF TO BLAME
FOR HIS DEATH
WHICH WILL FOLLOW.
-The Warning Inscription in the Jerusalem Temple

Darker, more substantive
against a backdrop of
pastel, Judean girls:
my mistress strode
all smoke and sparks
in the marketplace.

I gave the devil his due,
offered, even, some gratuity;
steeling myself against
the thought of her open
mouth kissing my
throat’s blood vessels open, 

As I wince through
Forgive me, Father,
for I have sinned,
still sin, in truth,
intend on
right on sinning.

Her husband’s not at home,
but he’s a good man.
Yeah, well, in Eden
Eve was enticed.
Desire isn’t always sprung
for lack of something.

Her body was a temple,
and she let me in.
There, beyond the balustrade
they found me.
Dragged her through the complex
while I fled on foot.

Some mornings I try to catch her
gaze in the city square
as she haggles the price
of a fish or purchases a basket;
her movements are lighter,
more fluid than they were before.

She left her life of sin,
the day she wasn’t stoned.
Where are your accusers?
Meanwhile, townspeople prattle
on about how I should’ve stood
beside her. It was a stroke of luck

when I fled with my life in my hands,
or so they say. But she
has faced the Arbitrator
and been absolved.
And I have yet
to face Him.

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The Second Greatest Commandment

(by Daniel R. Jones)

He wasn’t bleeding by the side of the road
to Jericho, or ransacked
by a group of marauders

or bruised
or naked
or left for dead.

He just needed a ride home from work.

He didn’t bother asking.
He’d already asked a couple times this week.
His eyes did the asking:

“I know you’re a Samaritan,
but will you be good?”

But my last cup of coffee and my Aleve
were wearing off in tandem,
and my wife and son were seated, already,
around some quickly-cooling Stroganoff.

Father,
brother,
forgive me.

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