POEM: Charlton Heston In Heaven

I wonder if Charlton Heston regrets
that video clip of him raising that
musket over his head,
Growling chafed words
about prying guns from cold,
dead hands, if there are toothless
cherubs surrounding him,
onion skinned, who also know about guns,
about tiny, cold, dead hands,
still as full of wonder,
scented with the talc of trust,
with voices like a corn-cob whisk,
telling him just how wrong he was?

POEM: What We Don't Believe

We do not really believe that art and music will raise our children’s test scores, for if we did,
we would equip each child with an art pad and violin while still in her crib.

We do not really believe that bread and wine, raised and consecrated, becomes the body and blood of Jesus Christ, for if we did, we would crawl on our hands and knees to the altar to consume it.


We do not really believe that we are beautiful or loved for if we did,
we would surely give beauty and love more freely.
We do not really believe that we are all brothers and sisters, for if we did,
there would be a homeless man in my guest room as I write this.

This is not meant to harp on shortcomings but
rather to show that the splitting of the atom is not just esoteric science.

It happens to be part of our genetic code:
This ability to explode on contact.